


How the Light Gets In

by notevenyou



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 12:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16995192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notevenyou/pseuds/notevenyou
Summary: The Monster is gone, but what's left?Eliot, after.





	How the Light Gets In

When Henry wiped their memories it had seemed like the end of Eliot. Of Quentin, of Margo, of all of them. It had seemed like the end of their story, like the end of everything. Henry hadn’t left them awake to plead their case, he’d left no room for a plot twist or a third act miracle. He’d dosed them and then things had gone dark.

It was not how Eliot had thought things would go, how he thought he would end, but nonetheless - Fin. Roll credits.   

Then the Monster had taken over Eliot’s body and suddenly the story had a new terrifying coda.

Eliot had fought. He’d fought hard, and he’d fought harder still when the Monster found Quentin. Eliot didn’t want this to be the last chapter of their story, for it to be a grim tragedy after all. But none of his efforts did more than make the Monster laugh.

Then Margo had showed up with a confused Josh and Julia in tow. They’d fought with more success than Eliot, and they’d taken Quentin away.

For a while after that Eliot had hoped they’d come back for him. But they hadn’t. He didn’t hold it against them. Instead, Eliot had decided that would be the end. Their daring rescue of Quentin, knowing they were out in the world, alive and themselves. It was a good ending in most respects, bittersweet but not fully tragic.

It wasn’t the real end. 

Or... it _was_.

It was the real end for a _lot_ of people.

The Monster was angry at losing Quentin and it found people to pay the price. It had searched for Quentin at first, but its childlike mind had turned to revenge, and then eventually just to slaughter, seemingly having forgotten the why of it.  

So actually, for the Monster it was more of a beginning - free on earth without the distraction of trying to find Quentin. Finding out more about the possibilities of a planet covered in people, in magic, in technology. It got excited. It got creative.

But it was the end for the people that served as its experiments, and eventually Eliot decides it will be the end for him too.

Eliot can’t fight it. Can’t make a real end of it not a brave one, not even a cowardly one. But gradually Eliot lets himself drift. He floats away in a numb haze, lets a static hum take over his thoughts. He imagines this static filling the space between him and what the Monster is doing. Filling _Eliot_ until there’s none of him left to hear the pleading or see the pain. Eliot floats apart, brick by brick, replaced with nothingness. And after a while it’s almost like an end.

And then something cuts into his nothingness. At first he doesn’t know what it is, only that it’s a sharp hurt, ripping through the soft static he’s made himself into. And Eliot fights it. His story is _over_. He wants no more crying, or rending, or monstrous glee.  

Whatever new torment the Monster has in store, Eliot is not going to be a part of it.

Is not going to be.

Is not.

.

.

.

It takes Eliot a long time to register that the pain has stopped. It takes him longer to realize that something else is different. That he is alone in his own mind. That there is no Monster pressing up against the static cloud that is what’s left of himself.

The absence of pain and the absence of the Monster are almost too much together. The relief washes thought him in overwhelming waves. It’s as if each wave concentrates him, pulling Eliot back into existence enough that he, against his instincts, starts to wonder things. Starts to wonder why? And how?

Eventually there’s enough of Eliot, enough curiosity and concern, that he lets the static fog part and turns outward enough to let some of the world drift in and be registered.

Eliot is on the floor of a nice suburban house. The Monster loves the peaceful quiet of the suburbs. Best when the houses are far enough away from the neighbors that screaming will go unnoticed.

He’s on his back. If there are bodies he can’t see them. What he can see is Margo. She’s above him, sideways, looking down. He considers it for a moment and decides she must have his head in her lap.

She came back for him. There’s not enough of Eliot coalesced to decide how he feels about that.

Margo is talking. To him, Eliot realizes slowly. The part of him that is wondering tries to focus, to understand what she is saying.  

Her hair is pulled back, business-like in a way she rarely is, but pieces have fallen out of the tie and her expression is worried. She has a hand on his face, and Eliot realizes he can feel the warmth of it.

“El? Come on, sweetie. Talk to me.” 

That seems like too tall an order and Eliot considers retreating to the static, but then Margo looks over at someone else. “He opened his eyes. That’s good, right?”

Eliot had opened his eyes? It hadn’t even occurred to Eliot that he might have control of his body again. He hadn’t tried to move. The curious part of him decides to try now. He starts small, following her gaze with his own.

Quentin is kneeling next to Eliot. There’s a thick line of blood down his face. The Monster was probably excited to see him.

“Of course it’s good. Right, Eliot?” There’s a note of pleading in his voice, and Eliot wonders how long they’ve been on this floor with him.

Quentin is leaning over Eliot. One of his hands is on Eliot’s chest, and Eliot can feel its weight against his ribs.

Quentin…

The sight of Quentin sends Eliot crashing into a memory. Quentin- Brian, crying. “Please,” he’d whispered, “Please.” The Monster had looked sympathetic, had fooled Brian with that face, but inside, where Eliot was, it had been laughing. The remembered ‘please’ sets off a crashing domino chain of memories in Eliot’s head - face after face, voice after voice, all saying ‘please.’ And always the laughter, the glee at their pleases, at their pain.  

The weight of Quentin’s hand, the sight of his face, his voice breaking, _worried_ for Eliot - all of it is suddenly intolerable. Where there’d been only static, now a rush of memories and unpleasant feelings flood Eliot. It’s so real, so immediate that he’s not sure if he’s there or here. If he’s Eliot or Monster.   

He has to get away and if this is his body again then maybe he can.

Eliot focuses and, mustering all the energy he has, he twists out from under Quentin’s hand, away from his concern, and away from the relentless barrage of memories. Eliot buries his face against Margo, blocking the sight of Quentin.

The movement makes Eliot aware that his newly reclaimed body is ringing with aches and pains. From the fight to evict the Monster, or from being possessed by a creature that knows nothing of human limits? He’s not sure, but a welcome blackness overtakes him. Eliot passes out before he has to deal with the chorus of relieved noises from above him. 

#

Eliot wakes up. He’s at Brakebills, in the infirmary. Quentin is slumped in a chair by the bed, tired looking, but awake. The blood is gone. A relieved smile breaks across his face when he sees Eliot’s eyes focused on him. “Eliot!” Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand, “Hey.”

(“Please.” Please. Please.Pleasepleasepleasepl-)

Eliot pulls his hand away and lets himself slip back into the darkness. 

#

The next time Eliot wakes up, it’s Margo by his side. She’s Margo again, hair styled, any panic hidden by a perfectly painted lip and a wry tilt to her eyebrow.

Even so, when Eliot says her name, tears well in her eyes, and her smile is sincere, not wry at all.

From somewhere a medic appears. Eliot dutifully answers their questions. Margo’s smile stays in place, so he must do well. 

After the medic leaves, Eliot listens to Margo’s tale of heroics, although he has trouble following the story, details slip in and out of focus. Somehow though, they’d all gotten their memories back, freed magic, freed the original Penny, freed Eliot. Survived. He tries return Margo’s smile, but he doesn’t think it’s much of a success.

It’s difficult to keep focused, and Eliot must drift for a bit because then Quentin is there again. Eliot’s attempted smile dies.

(Pleasepleasepleaseplea-) 

Eliot turns over and goes back to sleep.

# 

Another person might not have taken the hint, but Quentin has always been sensitive to rejection. 

He doesn’t show for a day or two. Eliot does his best through an awkward visit with Josh, who tries to recap everything Eliot has missed, right down to the gossip. Henry makes a very brief and very uncomfortable appearance. Kady shows up long enough to sympathetically offer Eliot drugs. Margo is there when she can be. But no Quentin.

Then Quentin sends Julia.

Julia is nearly as difficult to deal with as Quentin. Her gaze is too understanding, knowing in a way that leaves Eliot almost entirely unable to meet it.

She starts the visit as if she’s here on her own, asking Eliot how he’s doing. She looks at him with that knowing gaze as he offers the right responses, the ones that let people off the hook. She leaves room for Eliot to say more, to pull aside the veil and show her the wreckage that used to be a person. She already knows anyway, Eliot can tell. 

He’s silent.

“Okay,” she says in response to his silence. Then she says, “Quentin wants to see you, but he says you don’t want to see him.” 

Eliot is startled enough by her directness that he looks up. He has to look away from that understanding almost immediately, but she’s already seen the smoking rubble at the heart of him. 

“I don’t.”

Julia is quiet, waiting for Eliot to elaborate, but if there’s one thing he has after months trapped in his own body, it’s patience. He lets the silence stretch.

Julia breaks first. “He doesn’t blame you, you know.”

It’s almost enough to make Eliot laugh. Of course Quentin doesn’t blame him. Ernest, good-hearted Quentin.

( _Please_.)

The laugh doesn’t manifest. “I know.”

“He loves you.”

Julie says it without emphasis, just a fact. And Eliot can remember the first time Quentin said it, his gentle hands on Eliot’s face. Eliot can remember a hundred times in their lives together. Ernest or casual, during sex, or in middle-of-the-day quiet moments. The memories are twisted together with the shy smile Brian had given the Monster at first, with his tears later, with other people’s pleasepleaseplease. Eliot can barely breathe.

Julia is silent again, this time determined to wait Eliot out.

He forces himself to look at her, to meet her eyes directly. “I don’t want to see him,” Eliot says, loud enough to hear it over the remembered screams echoing in his ears.  

She presses her lips together, unhappy, but resigned. Knowing.   

It takes a long time after she leaves for the memories to fade into numbness.

#

Quentin doesn’t come to see Eliot again. Eliot supposes, in a way, he has Alice to thank for that. When she’d come back from being a Niffin, Eliot had sympathized with her. Quentin’s need to be there for her had been understandable, but wince worthy. It had seemed that, no matter how many times she said that she wanted to be alone, Quentin had always been there, his eyebrows knitted in a permanent expression of sincerity and concern.

But Eliot only had to say it once, not even to Quentin’s face, and Eliot is in a Quentin-free world. Alice must have gotten through to Quentin in the end. Either that or Quentin just isn’t as motivated to pursue Eliot, especially after what Eliot did to him, to all of them.

Margo is still there though. She tries to get Eliot to talk about Quentin and about the Monster but he refuses. She tries to get Eliot to talk about what he wants to do next and he can’t think of anything to say. 

Finally, Margo lets it all drop. Instead, she fills the space with discussion of Fillory and getting back to rule. With her plans for the kingdom and for reforms.

Margo decides, when it becomes apparent that Eliot can’t, that Eliot will go with her. It will do him good, she says, to go home and get away from Earth and its memories.

Eliot can’t muster her confidence, or really any feeling about it at all, but, when Margo packs up a stack of history and political science books and goes back to Fillory, Eliot goes too.

#

In Fillory, Eliot finds his old room more or less as he left it, if dustier. He supposes it’s technically the High King’s room, but the castle has rooms both numerous and voluminous, and Margo doesn’t seem concerned.

Margo does try to convince Eliot to attend a welcome home dinner, but Eliot pleads exhaustion and goes to bed.

The next morning Margo shows up, ready with some sort of activity for Eliot. He pretends to be asleep.

Margo keeps coming, day after day, and Eliot keeps avoiding her. She talks to him about anything and everything, but he can’t find words to turn it into a conversation. Sometimes he falls asleep while she’s there, unintentionally. Sometimes he fakes it.

Margo tries being nice. She tries being mean. She cries. She yells. She curls up next to him on the bed, holds him tight. She forces him out of the bed, into the bath. She pleads with him to do something. To do _anything._ She says ‘please’ and it sends Eliot drifting further into himself.

Eliot can tell that he’s scaring her, but he can’t let that mean anything to him. If he lets a thought settle, disrupt the static, then all the other thoughts he doesn’t want to have will break through too.

Instead, Eliot embraces the numbness again. Everything seems to blur, the static familiar and insulating.

It’s not as complete as Eliot would like. He vaguely registers Margo’s tears. He’s aware of time moving both fast and slow. It’s been a week, then another, then a month? More than one?

Despite weeks slipping past him, unnoticed and unmourned, days can stretch into seeming endlessness. He lays in his bed hoping for night, and instead the sun inches slowly across the floor, each minute an eternity. A dust particle drifts down from the ceiling, eons passing as it makes its golden way down to the floor.

Sleep seems the only solution, and Eliot sleeps as much of the day away as he can. But then he finds himself awake in the still of the night, the same eternity, just flipped, the light through his window now the cool lonely moon of Fillory.

At the beginning, Eliot tried drinking, an old reliable strategy, but it only makes his dream more vivid. They rip through the static and leave him gasping for air, covered in sweat. It doesn’t take much of this before Eliot leaves the bottles out to be covered in dust, relying on the static to smother his thoughts instead.

But the static can only cover so much. The thoughts break through anyway, taking him down darkening paths during the slow nights. Eliot sees now that his whole life had been leading to the Monster. After all, he’d known since he was very young that there was something monstrous about him, something that made his father hate him and his mother look away in shame. Something that made Logan and his friends beat Eliot up. 

Eliot had tried to hide it, whatever it was. When he was young, it had never been clear to him what made people flinch away and he tried to change so many things. The things he liked, the things he wanted, the heart of him. He tried to be just like everyone else. To hide himself away under his own skin, just like the Monster had in the end.

Eliot had tried to smother it, to suffocate its nebulous badness, but the monster inside of him had broken out anyway and Logan Kinnear had died.

After that, Eliot had known. He _was_ exactly as awful as everyone thought and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. So Eliot embraced it. He embraced the things that his family, that his small town found monstrous. If Eliot was a monster, he would be the _best_ monster.  

And eventually Eliot found people who told him that those things weren’t monstrous at all. That he could be everything his family hated, and still be worthwhile. There was even a school for magic for fuck’s sake. There was Margo. And for a little while Eliot started to believe it.

But in the end, that was wrong. Eliot was a monster, no school for magic could teach that away and Mike had paid the price. Eliot had fucked him - fucked a guy being puppeteered by an evil magician and hadn’t even _noticed_. Fucked him, liked him, and killed him.

Then Eliot had run away to Fillory, told himself it was a sacrifice and not a hiding place. And Fillory, a place with goddamn literal monsters hadn’t wanted him in the end. 

Becoming the Monster - well, that just made sense. The truest manifestation of himself, the logical end to Eliot’s story.

But then Eliot’s friends, the loyal do-gooders that they were, had killed the Monster. They’d worked together, all their goodness shining brightly, and defeated it. In their goodness, their righteousness, they’d emptied Eliot out, scraped the Monster from him like the flesh from a melon, taken the core of him. Now Eliot is hollow of anything but the memories of the terrible things he’s done.

And, if Eliot has become a Monster once, twice, three times, why shouldn’t he again? It’s that thought more than any other that keeps Eliot in bed, slowly collapsing in on himself. It’s safer this way. Out there? Well, Eliot remembers what he can do. 

#

Eliot, has settled into the static. Some days it seems that he’s almost perfected not thinking anything at all. Then the memories will find him, they mix and swirl with nightmares, leaving him gasping, desperately testing his fingers, his toes, making sure he’s in control of his body.

Margo’s visits are regular, but her earlier passion and fear have settled into a quiet resignation. Aside from the servants, who at Margo’s orders, make sure Eliot’s sweaty bed sheets are replaced regularly, and that there is always food for him to pick over, no one else bothers him. 

One afternoon (hadn’t the sun just come up?), Eliot gradually recognizes that someone is sitting next to his bed, waiting. 

Margo, Eliot thinks at first. But no, it’s Fen.

Fen sits, prim and patient, like so many times before in their marriage. Eliot fuzzily remembers, from Margo’s many attempts to engage him in conversation, that Fen is one of Margo’s advisors now, one of her best. Fen is dressed neatly and formally. She looks businesslike and centered, as befits the right hand of the King. Eliot is just aware enough to feel relieved that he bathed the previous day.

He’s been slouched against a pile of pillows, staring, unseeing at the wall across from his bed. But now he sits up, becoming conscious of the fact that he’s in sleep clothes, his feet bare.

“Hello,” he says.   

Eliot’s state of undress doesn’t seem to register with Fen. She regards him for a long moment. He knows her just well enough to see that under her outer calm she’s nervous, but not well enough to know why or how to alleviate it.

Before Eliot can figure out what to say next, Fen gathers her courage and says, with no preamble, “I want a divorce.” 

“Oh.”

That makes perfect sense, but can they? The fact that divorce wasn’t really a thing in Fillory was something that used to bother Eliot quite a bit. To his shame, Eliot hasn’t really thought much about Fen, beyond as a point in his litany of things he’s done wrong, since- since he got back. 

“Queen Margo has made some … social reforms.” 

That sounds like his Bambi. 

“And one of them is divorce. For any reason.”

That sounds even more like Bambi.  

“And I would like a divorce.”

Fen straightens even more into her prim posture, apparently at the end of her argument, but really there’s no need for an explanation. Their marriage had been bad for the both of them. It had been purely for political purposes, which were now irrelevant. And more to the point, Eliot had been a terrible husband who’d abandoned his grieving wife. Not to mention the awkward question of their sex life.

“Okay,” Eliot says, and immediately wishes he had said something that made it seem less like he was eager to escape her.

But Fen doesn’t seem offended, and, in fact, brightens. “Great!”

She pulls a small book, a calendar, out of her pocket. “Do you have any problems with starting the rituals tomorrow? It’s just that if we wait, we’re going to be in the middle of the quarterly petitions, and that’s always a busy time.”

She looks up at him expectantly, as if Eliot has a schedule that can be interrupted. 

He shakes his head. “Um, no. That’s fine.” 

Fen writes something in her planner, with what appears to be a ballpoint pen. 

“Okay!” She says firmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. After breakfast, at the entryway.”

Eliot nods.

Fen is almost out the door when she stops and turns back to him. “Thank you. It will be for the best, you’ll see.”

Eliot can’t possibly argue with that.   

#

Margo fetches Eliot for breakfast. She’s clearly aware of Fen’s plans and, over eggs, she explains Fillorian divorce.

It turns out that, despite Margo’s best efforts to push through a simple no-fault divorce process, there’s a quintessentially Fillorian set of rituals tied to the new concept of legally ending a marriage.

“Conscious uncoupling for the fairy tale set,” Margo says, spearing a slice of fruit.

Eliot picks at his food, while Margo explains that it’s an absolute minimum three day process. Eliot’s not sure he’s left his room for three _hours_ in the last few months, much less the better part of three days, and his heart sinks. But he can’t deny Fen this after everything he’s taken from her, all the disappointments he’s given her.

At the end of breakfast, Margo comes over to Eliot’s side of the table and surveys him critically. He’s glad he’d shaved off the scraggly beard that had been taking over his face, and that he’d taken the time to find a suitably sober outfit from his closet. He hadn’t had the energy to deal with his too long hair, but it’s clean at least. She nods briskly. “I’m glad you’re doing this Eliot. You need to look forward.” 

Her expression is calm, but Eliot knows Margo too well not to see the fear lurking at the edges. Fear for Eliot.

The sight of it cuts into the static, and sends a pang of guilt through him. For Bambi Eliot can try. He touches the line of her jaw, trying to soothe the tremble there, and answers her with a kiss on the forehead.

She’s very still, allowing herself one ragged breath, before she pulls herself together. She steps back and his Bambi disappears into High King Margo, swiftly and completely.

She gives him one last nod, and then Margo is gone, off to rule a kingdom. 

#

Fen collects Eliot as promised, leading him to a small room that has apparently been put aside for their use. 

The first day of rituals turns out to be a grab bag of weird prayers, a formal division of assets, and an oral recollection of their marriage. It sounds like a lot, and in other, lengthier, marriages each might have its own day, or even multiple days. For them, Fen has scheduled one day.

A priest comes into the room in a cloud of scented smoke, and a varied selection of opening prayers commences. Fillory has had many religions over the years. None of them have been particularly strict on conversion, which has left Fillory dotted all over in pockets of wildly different religious traditions, neighbors each practicing their own rituals - intermarriage creating strange and wonderful blendings. Eliot has never cared much about religion one way or the other, but Quentin, true to his love of all things Fillory, had collected origin stories and oddly specific prayers like some men collected sports statistics.

Quentin would have been fascinated by the divorce rituals, which skip easily through at least ten traditions. Eliot gives up trying to follow it after twenty minutes, paying only enough attention to echo Fen.   

After they say their last Fillorian amen, there’s a form to sign, affirming that they’re religiously satisfied, a strange side effect of Margo’s attempts to create a legal framework.

Next an arbiter comes in to assist with the division of their assets. That’s much simpler than the proceeding prayers - Eliot has essentially nothing.

As High King, Eliot had a lot, but those things had never really been his, they’d been Fillory’s, and for now they’re Margo’s. Fen, as it turns out, makes a good salary as advisor to the King, but Eliot waives any claim to her property.

The arbiter seems surprised at the quick division. Eliot can only imagine the long days of arguing over sheep that her job must usually entail. She has them sign another form approving the short list of nothing they’ve made and leaves with a cheerful wave, no doubt on her way to enjoy an unexpected afternoon off.

Unfortunately, this leaves Eliot and Fen with a gap before the scribe comes to record the events of their marriage. They sit for a moment in uneasy silence, each waiting for the other to say something, but what do you say to one another halfway through a divorce? Sitting in the middle of a seam half unstitched?

Fen finally says, practical and brave as always, “I suppose we should get some lunch.”

She looks, in that moment, exactly as young as she is, and it seems impossible to Eliot that she should carry so much weight already - a kingdom, a lost child, and, now, a failed marriage. A rush of the tender sympathy that used to characterize Eliot’s best efforts at being a husband fills him, and he wants to make her smile.

So, with a show of overdone gallantry, Eliot makes his way to Fen’s side and offers her his arm. “Milady?” 

She hesitates and doubt overtakes him, it’s too forward perhaps, too- But then Fen smiles up at him, small but genuine. She takes his arm with a familiar over-the-top flourish, the way they used to play at being King and Queen to hide that they had no idea what they were doing, with the kingdom or with each other. 

They collect food from the kitchens, and then Fen leads them out into the castle gardens to eat. It’s a bit awkward, but Eliot isn’t sure that he and Fen have ever had a moment that wasn’t at least a little bit awkward. They manage an inconsequential conversation and then, picking over the crumbs of lunch, a mostly pleasant silence. 

The sun is warm and Eliot tips his face back to absorb it. He hasn’t been outside since he got here. He’s almost completely sure it had been winter then, but now it’s mild, a light breeze blowing the gentle, green scents of the garden over him. It reminds Eliot of spring at the mosaic, when it became possible to work on the puzzle without gloves and heavy coats again. Those days had always seemed like such a relief after the winter months. Of course the winters had their appeal. Some days were just too blustery to work, and then they spent quiet days inside around the fire, or hidden under the sheets, close for warmth. Eliot hadn’t minded that at all.

The children, Teddy and then later the grandchildren, had always preferred spring and summer of course. They’d loved running around in the sunshine. For a moment, Eliot loses himself in a memory of Teddy, maybe eleven, speeding around the cottage with his friends. At that age, he’d seemed to be always with a gaggle of children from the area. They’d tumble around the cottage, playing and arguing, while Eliot and Quentin worked on the mosaic, stopping to laugh every once awhile at the children’s antics.  

It’s a happy memory, and Eliot smiles into the sun.

Eventually the break is over, and Eliot and Fen have to go back in, this time to walk through the facts of their marriage while a scribe takes down the details. Eliot isn’t sure what this is supposed to accomplish, but he lets Fen lead the tale, agreeing with her recitation of events even when it’s not quite how he remembers it. Why should it be after all? He was in his own world and she in hers. Sometimes literally.

Eliot’s contributions mostly amount to filling in the gaps for the long periods when he’d abandoned Fen in Fillory to go try to drown out the memory of his marriage with sex or quests. Eliot keeps these recollections spare, no need to rub his unfaithfulness in her face.

The scribe seems a bit miffed that there isn’t any disagreement, no doubt a particular joy of the job is recording petty arguments, but Eliot and Fen both declare themselves to be satisfied with the record and sign their third form of the day. 

Afterward, Eliot makes his apologies and ducks out of dinner, being up and talking to people all day has left him exhausted. He goes to bed early and actually sleeps dreamlessly through the night.

On the second morning Eliot meets Fen for breakfast. She’s quieter than the day before, tense. Eliot finds out why when they meet with the priest, the same one from the day before. The next step in Fillorian divorce is about the children. For a couple with living offspring that can mean coming up with a custody arrangement or breaking the news to the children. But for Eliot and Fen, there are no living children, and, instead, Fen has arranged to have the funeral that they never had for their child.

It’s not quite a funeral in the way that Eliot thinks of funerals. Nothing like the elaborate Midwestern gathering they’d had for his grandfather, all the old farmers in their uncomfortable best, filling the driveway and the yard around it with battered trucks. Eliot, nine and trying to be satisfactory, trying to stand straight, but not too straight, trying to be sad for a man who had never seemed pleased with him. This funeral has no interminable potluck afterward, no casseroles lining the table, and no coffee maker bubbling in a constant state of production. No women filling the kitchen, washing endless dishes, no men sneaking outside to smoke and pass a flask - Eliot fitting in neither place. None of that.

Instead, it’s just Eliot, Fen and the priest. And the priest’s role is quick, he doesn’t have much to say for the baby that didn’t even have one day. There’s not even a form to sign. 

After the priest leaves, Fen leads Eliot to a small royal graveyard. Eliot hadn’t even known it existed, and, frivolously, he wonders if Quentin knows about it. Quentin would be fascinated by the collection of mossy graves. Eliot snaps back to the moment when Fen points to the headstone she’s had placed here.

It’s a small marker, nothing very royal about it and Fillorians aren’t much for numbering years, so it just says, “Gone too soon. Child of Fen and Eliot.”

It’s not that Eliot hasn’t known intellectually that the child died. But he hasn’t let himself think about it. Since the first moment Fen told him she was pregnant, the idea of a child had seemed distant and unreal. When the child never manifested Eliot let it stay that way. Since then, events have piled on each other in such a way that he’s never gone back and considered the loss in any depth, just as one more failure on a list.

But now, the stone is firmly real and with Fen’s fingers digging into his arm, as little as Eliot might wish, he has to consider it.  

His throat is strangely tight, but he manages to ask, “Is there a ceremony or something we should do?”

Fen’s face is wet with tears, but her voice is steady as she shows Eliot how to leave offerings of wine and incense, and what to say as he does.

Eliot isn’t sure if it’s a more general ceremony, or particular to whatever brand of Fillorian faith that Fen grew up with, but he studies her with the attention to detail of a Magician, and replicates the simple ceremony exactly.

It hardly takes any longer than the short prayers the priest had offered, but afterward Fen shows no inclination to leave. Eliot stays beside her, silently kneeling by the graveside. When she starts to quietly shake with tears he pulls her into his arms, trying his best to offer what belated comfort he can. 

This child may have never seemed real to Eliot, but through the mysterious quirks of the universe he’s been a father. Now, faced with the small grave, he’s unable to avoid thinking of the pain he would have felt if anything had happened to Teddy, or to one of the grandchildren, if they had come to rest under the earth.

Eliot lets himself imagine, in a way he’s never let himself before, a little person that looked like Fen or that had his curls. Someone who would have grown up to be their own self, grown to be more than he and Fen could have ever imagined.

Eliot thinks he could have been a good father to that person. He hadn’t thought so before, but after Teddy, after the life he’d had in the past, Eliot thinks he could have done it. Even to someone who shared the Waugh genes. He finds himself regretting not having that chance.

Fen pulls back back enough to look at him, to touch his face. “You’re crying,” she says, sounding surprised. 

Fen…

“You would have been a great mother.” Eliot knows that to be true. Even more than the chance that Eliot might have been a good father, there’s the certainty that Fen would have been a wonderful mother to their child.  

Her face crumples, and he tries to reassure her, “You’ll be a great mother still.”

She nods, then buries her face in his chest once more. They stay like that until their tears run out. For once, truly united. 

After that, the last day of divorce proceedings seems simple. They fill out some more  paperwork, and sign off (again) on the documents they’ve produced over the last couple of days. The priest comes back once more, and there’s a ritual with a rope that Eliot and Fen unknot together. Then that’s it. Eliot is unmarried and Fen is free.

Eliot isn’t sure what to feel. At one point, he’d wanted nothing more than to not be married, and now he’s not sure that it matters very much to him. But for Fen it matters, and so, for her, Eliot is glad.

Fen seems glad too, but she stops on her way out to ask, “Do you think we could be friends someday?”

Eliot remembers right after the wedding, before things had gotten even more complicated, how much he’d just _liked_ her. They could have easily been friends in different circumstances, but it seems impossible to him that she would want friendship after he’d torn down her life again and again.

But if she does, “Of course, if that’s what you want, I’d be honored.”

Fen looks pleased. “Someday.” She reaches out to grasp Eliot’s hand for a moment, “Someday soon.”

#

Margo had insisted that Eliot have dinner with her that night, after the divorce is final, but he and Fen have finished the final steps so quickly that it’s hours before dinner and Eliot finds himself at loose ends. He tries going back to his room, but the very sight of the walls makes him feel ill. Eliot has lost his carefully cultivated numbness, and now he can’t stand to be in this room for one more minute.

Instead, Eliot goes to the garden where he’d had lunch with Fen the first day of the ceremony. It’s not as sunny as it had been then. It’s overcast and a little chilly, with the promise of a spring rain in the air, but the smell of the damp earth is far better than the stale air of his room, and the sight of the small, green shoots everywhere is better than watching dust hang in the air. 

If Fen hadn’t insisted on the divorce, maybe Eliot would have stayed in that room forever. Maybe it never would have bothered him. And maybe if he goes back now, if he lays down in his bed, stares at the walls, maybe then the same apathy will overtake him again. But - even though it hurts to think about his failures with Fen, to think about their child that never was, even with the shadow of all the things that he can’t quite bring himself acknowledge pressing over his shoulder, even so - Eliot wants to keep moving now that he’s started.

And Fen is saving Eliot in more ways than one. Because her life has been dismantled, everything she was, everything she hoped to be, was taken away and yet she’s kept going. She forged an alliance with the woman who stole her child because it was the right thing to do, she’s working to keep her home alive, to make it better. And if Fen can do all that, Eliot can get out of bed everyday and do _something_.

Even if Eliot is not quite sure what that something might be.

#

Maybe it’s because Eliot has made his first decision in months. Maybe it’s because he can’t quite figure out where that decision should lead, and he finds himself in a sort of limbo - determined, but aimless. Maybe it’s just the thinning of the comforting cloud of static, but that night, and the nights that follow, are filled with nightmares about the Monster.

Sometimes the nightmares are actually memories, all the terrible little games that the Monster liked to play - animals, people whose names Eliot never learned, crying, dying.  

(Pleasepleasepleaseple-)

Sometimes, it’s worse than that. Sometimes in Eliot’s dreams, the people he cares about are switched with the strangers from his memories. Quentin of course, but Fen and Margo too. Or more improbably, Teddy, Teddy’s wife, the grandchildren. Older memories appear too, Mike, Logan, Eliot’s father.

When Eliot wakes after these dreams, it takes him too many breaths to remember which parts happened and which are mere nightmare. He’d killed Mike, he’d killed Logan but not like _that._ He’d fantasized occasionally about killing his father, but he _hadn’t._ Quentin had gotten _away._ Margo is _fine._

The most difficult part of all is remembering that it hadn’t been _him_ , that it wasn’t him. In the dreams, Eliot wants to hurt. In the dreams, he enjoys it because he’s the Monster.

In exhaustion, Eliot starts to avoid Margo. He’s constantly braced for the moment that he’ll want to hurt her, his tired mind supplying vivid snippets of the previous night’s dreams.

( _Please, El. Please._ )

He’s hardly getting any sleep, and without sleep it becomes tempting to just slip back into spending his days in bed, but Eliot holds tightly to Fen’s example. The real Fen, not the one that cries in his dreams. That Fen is still going despite everything. He sees the work that she and Margo are doing everyday for Fillory. And so Eliot gets up everyday too, leaves his bed behind and tries to leave the dreams there as well.

Eliot goes on long walks around the castle, rain or shine, trying to come up with a plan, a direction for his life. The days are getting warmer and the walks leave him sweaty and a little sun-dazed, but they also distract him and help him clear his mind of the echoes that the nights bring.

Eliot varies his route everyday, exploring new ways around the castle, but twice his path takes him to the small royal cemetery that Fen showed him. It’s on the second trip, sitting by the small headstone for their unnamed child, that Eliot finally comes up with a plan.

#

Margo has been trying to get Eliot to come to dinner every night, but between her schedule and his avoidance they don’t have a very good track record. But that night, for the first time in nearly a week, Eliot doesn’t duck out of it. He wants to talk to her about his plan, but he can’t quite find the right way to start. During dinner he keeps swerving to other topics. Margo knows him too well, though. Finally, she puts down her fork, folds her hands in that way of hers that means business and says, “Are you going to tell me whatever it is you’ve been trying to tell me all night?”

Right. Eliot can do this. “I’ve been thinking that it might do me some good to get out of the castle for a while,” he says, incompletely. 

Margo nods. “And?”

“I thought I might-” But no, Eliot isn’t sure what parts of the story she already knows. Eliot takes a breath and starts over. “You remember that whole,” he waves a hand trying to sum up the umsummable. “That whole other life that Quentin and I had on the quest?”

Margo looks confused. “Yes?”

“Well, I was thinking. You got the key, so it... It _happened,_ right?”

She considers it for a moment, then shrugs, “Time travel. So, maybe?”

This is the part Eliot isn’t sure about. He never told her, but who knows what Quentin said when Eliot was busy being the Monster. Either way, Margo will probably be hurt that Eliot didn’t mention it.

“Well, I don’t think we ever, uh, discussed the details of that situation.” 

Margo looks suspicious. “What’s to discuss? I got the letter. I stopped it.”

“Right. Right, but, um, when we came back to Fillory, Quentin and I remembered that timeline anyway. Somehow.”

Margo’s eyebrows are at their most incredulous. “So, what? You and Q remember a whole life in Fillory? And neither of you thought to bring this up?”

“I’m sorry. Things were- But, I’m sorry.”

She takes a breath and steels herself. “Okay. So we’re discussing the details of this at some point. But-” She gets distracted from whatever she was going to say. “Wait. The letter said you _died_. Do you remember dying?”

The last thing Eliot remembers is being with Quentin at the mosaic. “I don’t. I think I was asleep. I do remember getting very old.”

Margo makes a face. 

Eliot shakes his head. “No, it was good. We-” He darts a look at Margo and then away. “We were together. So it was fine.”

Her eyebrows have gone improbably higher. “Together, together?”

Eliot is hit with a sudden sense memory of the way Quentin would tuck himself against Eliot at night. The way Quentin liked to always drop one last kiss on whatever part of Eliot he could easily reach - shoulder, neck, hand - before saying ‘good night.’ Hundreds, probably _thousands_ of nights just like that - a kiss, a good night, and Quentin pressed warm along Eliot’s side.

“Yes,” Eliot manages, after only slightly too long a pause.  

Margo is already taking a breath for her next question, but Eliot rushes on, “We had a family. A son. And grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren.” Margo has given up on incredulous. Her tone is flat.

“Yes,” Eliot says again. “I thought, if it really happened, there might still be, oh I guess great-great grandchild now. And I thought- I thought I might go and find them, or find out if they ever really existed anyway.”

It hurts to think of Teddy never existing, which is why Eliot hadn’t really let himself think it. But that small gravestone makes it clear he owes it to that child, and maybe to Teddy, to at least _know_.

Margo is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “We’ll get to your quest in a moment, but can I ask an invasive clarification question.”

God he loves her. “Please do.”

“You and Quentin had a child…”

“Oh,” Eliot laughs. “No. Quentin was married to a woman named Arielle for a few years.”

“Okay, that is both a relief and somehow a disappointment. I thought I was going to learn something _very_ strange. So you and Quentin had a bisexual, polyamorous _thing_ , and no one mentioned this to me?”

Eliot starts to apologize again, but she pushes it aside, “God. No. Just- How much have our lives gone off the rails that a crucial detail like that could _not_ come up?”

“Pretty far?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, so, if I’m getting this right, you want to go on a quest to find whatever mini-Qs might be scattered across Fillory?”

She’s being deliberately light with him, but Eliot will take it, “Quest-lette at the most, I think.”

Margo waves that away. She seems to agree that a quest(-lette) will be good for Eliot, but tries to get him to agree to a guard or two. The idea of someone following him around doesn’t appeal to Eliot. He manages to convince her that he’ll be fine, but Margo has one last question. “What if it didn’t happen? What if you can’t find anyone?”

It’s not an easy thought, but, “Then I’ll know.”

And that’s that. Eliot sets out two days later. Margo sees him off with a kiss, and his promise to be careful.

#

Eliot decides to walk. He could take a horse, but half the point is to have something to do, something to fill his time and his mind. There’s no need to rush, Fillory isn’t that large anyway.  

He eases into the whole quest-lette by visiting Fray first. Fray is not quite Eliot’s daughter, but Fray is also not quite _not_ Eliot’s daughter. If he’s surveying his progeny or whatever it is he’s doing, it would feel wrong not to visit her. And at least Eliot knows that Fray exists. So the first stop Eliot makes is the inn where Fray had been working when last he saw her.

Fray greets him with all the social grace that a childhood among fairies has given her, “What do you want this time?”

Despite this, once Eliot explains that he’s making a social call, he thinks Fray’s happy to see him. In her own way.

Eliot stays at the inn for a few days. Long enough to begin to become acquainted with Humbledrum. Humbledrum’s cheerful disinterest in human manners is a good match for Fray’s, and it makes Fray’s evident affection for him comprehensible. Watching the two of them together, Eliot can almost understand their relationship. Almost.

When Eliot leaves, Fray says with apparent sincerity, “You may visit again. I don’t think I’d hate it.”

Eliot is touched. 

#

Eliot doesn’t have a particularly detailed plan for finding his descendants, but it turns out he doesn’t need one.

He starts straightforwardly by going to the farmhouse that Teddy had built for his wife. Where the two of them had raised their children, Eliot’s grandchildren, and then had welcomed grandchildren of their own.

The farmhouse is still there, still surrounded by gardens and fields. There are rows of fruit trees that hadn’t been mature enough to bear fruit the last time Eliot had seen them, but are now tall and blossoming. A large barn has been built at some point, much grander than the over-sized shed where Teddy kept his small number of livestock. It all looks neat and well-cared for, and surely if it’s here that means that, at one point, Teddy was too?   

Eliot knocks at the front door, vaguely expecting to have to do some sort of investigation, to pursue leads somehow. Instead, the older woman who opens the door has Teddy’s chin, and the little girl that runs past her knee has Arielle’s curly red hair. A quest-lette indeed. 

And just like that, a tension Eliot hadn’t quite known he was carrying leaves him. He feels like he can breath freely in a way he hasn’t since his memory first rushed back, clinging to the sweet flavor of the peach and coupled with fear.

They _hadn’t_ accidentally erased their own family from existence. Their life together existed. Teddy existed. One child of Eliot’s had survived him.

And here stands the proof, her eyes wide. 

“High King Eliot!” The woman with Teddy’s chin seems torn between making some gesture of deference, a curtsy maybe, and asking a question. She wavers in place, opens and closes her mouth, and finally does neither, staring at Eliot helplessly instead.

Eliot waves aside the title, “I think you know I’m not a king any longer. That’s not why I’m here.”

A tension leaves her shoulders and the specter of the curtsy recedes.

“I’m here because… God, this sounds crazy, but I think we’re related? It’s a time travel thing.”

Eliot is expecting doubt, even in Fillory it seems a bit out of the blue, but she merely nods, gesturing him inside the house. It takes him a moment to absorb her easy acceptance, but he takes the invitation and follows her inside.   

Eliot tries not to peer too obviously around himself, but he can’t help observing the changes from the last time he’d been here. The house has settled into itself, a stately, old home now, when it had once it had been a fresh, young house, still smelling of new cut wood. Teddy had added a wing some years later, but there have been further additions still.

Even so, the house is not totally changed. The woman leads Eliot into in the kitchen, and there is the gigantic, solid wooden table that Teddy’s in-laws had given their daughter as a wedding gift. It’s been battered by the years, but cared for as well, freshly varnished not that long ago from the looks of it. It’s a nice piece of continuity, although Eliot does wonder if the fact that someone would need to chop the thing to pieces to get it out of the house has anything to do with this touching sentimentality.

The woman offers Eliot a seat at the table. She moves around the kitchen getting him tea while he shrugs out of his pack and sits.

As she arranges a plate of cookies to go with the tea, she says, “When they posted all those posters of the new High King, Aunt Emerald said that it was her Great-Grandpa Eliot. And there had always been family stories.”

Eliot’s heart leaps. He leans towards her, filled with an urgent hope. “Emerald is here?”

Emerald had been eight or nine the last time Eliot saw her. She’d always been quiet, but she was observant, watching everything around her with big eyes. Eliot and Quentin had exchanged a few quiet jests at the name when her mother had announced it, but Emerald herself had grown to be a sweet, smart girl. Eliot hadn’t started this with the hope that anyone he knew from before would be alive, but-

“No, I’m sorry. She passed on a few months ago. Last of her generation.” The woman, Emerald’s niece, sets the plate down and takes a seat across from Eliot.

The hope flickers out and a wave of regret washes over him. Eliot should have come here sooner. Had Emerald died before or after he would have known her? Had Eliot missed the chance to see her again, hiding in his room? 

Emerald’s niece is watching him carefully, so Eliot pushes aside the ache of it, forces himself to smile and take a cookie. 

The woman turns out to be named Dilly, and she’s Emerald’s _great_ -niece. Dilly tells Eliot about her family, her own children and grandchildren, her mother and father, aunts and uncles, her grandparents. It’s confusing, it’s overwhelming and it’s wonderful to think of all the people, here and across Fillory, who are connected to Eliot, connected to his little family.

In turn, Eliot answers Dilly’s questions, delights her by confirming family mythology, and, Eliot supposes, giving her family a tenuous royal connection. 

Eventually, Dilly moves on to preparing for dinner. Eliot’s offer to help is rebuffed, with a scandalized look. Patriarchy? Respect for an elder forty years her junior? The lingering deference due a High King? Eliot isn’t sure, but he doesn’t push his luck.

She’s barely begun, when the rest of the family starts tumbling in. Dilly is forced to explain his presence three times before the story starts spreading back and people start coming in forewarned. Dilly’s two sons and their children both live in the house, and Eliot is introduced to a bewildering number of people in quick succession.

#

That dinner is only the beginning of a bewildering few days. Dilly’s family is happy to host Eliot, and relatives of all ages come from around the farm to meet their Earth ancestor in person. Eliot can’t argue with the novelty of the situation and tries to greet each new person with the same enthusiasm as the last. 

So many of them carry little echos of Teddy, Quentin, and Arielle in the color of their hair, the slope of their brows, or the way they carry themselves. They all have stories too, stories of their own lives, stories of their elders. The older people often have little memories of the grandchildren, although they remember them as grandparents of course.   

After a few days, just when Eliot is starting to think he can’t meet one more toddler with Arielle’s flaming hair, Dilly’s sister, Briar, comes from the next farm over and spirits him away.

Briar tells Eliot that she is too old to bother with tact. She says bluntly that, while she loves her family, no one should be expected to take them all at once like that. She says, no doubt Eliot could use a bit of quiet. The two of them spend the morning walking through fields, mostly in silence. Both the quiet and the chance to get out and stretch his legs are a relief to Eliot. 

They stop for lunch and, revitalized by the quiet morning, Eliot asks about her family. Briar turns out to be a bit of a family historian, and, as they start walking again, she regals him with stories of Emerald and the other grandchildren. Once she sees Eliot doesn’t mind, Briar has her own questions about about Earth and about Teddy. She’s deeply curious, and Eliot finds himself having to confess that he doesn’t know that much about Arielle and Quentin’s parents, much less about their grandparents.

Eliot isn’t sure if they have a destination in mind, but, if they do, they make their way there slowly. Briar moves carefully and Eliot, remembering the ache of swollen joints, of a lifetime’s worth of wear, carefully matches her pace. When, a while after lunch, Briar stops, it takes Eliot a moment to understand that Briar’s not just catching her breath, that they did have a destination, and that they’ve arrived. Eliot follows Brair’s gaze and sees- Oh. A small collection of headstones. A cemetery. 

Briar watches Eliot, waiting for his reaction. He takes one breath, and then two, trying to sort his thoughts. It’s silent but for the buzz of insects and the soft dry noises of the grass, but those little noises seem to fill Eliot’s mind. Eliot’s not sure he wants to see whatever is over there, but, finally, he nods anyway and they continue.

The cemetery isn’t fenced off, it’s just a small, irregularly shaped plot spreading out from under a lone tree. The tree casts thick dark shadows over its roots and over the markers closest to it.

Eliot and Briar start at the edge, newer stones, outside the range of the cool shadows. Briar points to her husband’s marker and to two sons. The husband Eliot had known about, but her sons... Eliot offers his sympathies, but Briar waves them away with the brisk gesture of a woman old enough to have seen many deaths. 

Briar leads Eliot further in. At first, the stones mark the lives of people Eliot knows only from the stories he’s learned over the last few days, and then there’s Emerald, tucked next to her husband, her sisters and brothers, their cousins. Further back yet, the grandchildren. Little Adele... Eliot had loved all the grandchildren equally, but Teddy and his wife had let Eliot name Adele. Eliot had insisted that Adele was a family name, and Quentin had played along with such sincerity that, by the end, Eliot had almost believed himself. Later, Q had laughed, “I supposed I should just be glad you didn’t call her Gaga.” Eliot had pretended to be inspired by that idea, but Quentin knew him too well to be fooled. He’d just smiled indulgently at Eliot until Eliot was forced to admit defeat.

Eliot lingers at Adele’s marker. He knows what must wait at the back of that cemetery in the shadow of the tree. He doesn’t want to see it. But Briar keeps moving, and eventually Eliot musters his courage follows.

It’s not like Eliot didn’t know that Teddy was dead. And it’s not like Teddy hadn’t lived a full life. But it’s still a blow to see his gravestone, neatly laid next to his wife, all of their children and grandchildren spreading out from their feet.

Eliot kneels in front of the stone, kneels at the second of his children’s graves in as many months. He wishes Quentin was there with him, and at the same time Eliot is grateful that Quentin doesn’t have to see it. Eliot is not a praying man, but he misses the neat order of the ritual Fen had showed him. If nothing else, it offered the illusion that he’d done _something_. But here there’s nothing to do. Or rather, Eliot had his chance to do what could be done in life, and now can only hope that he’d been a good father. That he’d done everything he could.

Eliot gives himself a few moments, and then uses the back of his hand to swipe away the wetness on his face. He stands and turns back to Briar. Briar smiles sadly, one bereaved parent to another and Eliot manages a weak return smile.

Eliot turns to head out of the shade, back into the light, but Briar keeps going, all the way to the foot of the tree. Puzzled, Eliot follows her, and sees that, in the dimness, there is a large stone tangled in the roots of the tree. The shade of the tree is thick enough that Eliot is nearly on top of the marker before he can read the worn lettering.

It’s- It’s his grave. His, Arielle’s, and Quentin’s.

Quentin had been clear that Eliot had died. It had been one of the first things he’d said when their memories rushed back, but somehow Eliot hadn’t let himself think about Quentin’s life after. Selfish.

Quentin had gone on clearly. He’d given the key to Jane, he’d written the letter to Margo, he’d arranged for it to be sent. Eliot feels sad for that Quentin, alone with no quest, his life’s work complete. Eliot wonders if Quentin had thought he’d be erasing their life, their family, by sending the letter. He wonders if Quentin had struggled with the choice.  

Briar is at Eliot’s elbow, alive in this place of ghosts. He asks her, “I, uh, I died back at the mosaic, how…?” 

Briar apologetically tells Eliot that she doesn’t believe his actual body is here. They reflexively pause for a moment to let the essential weirdness of that statement fade. When the quivery, nails on a chalkboard feeling dissipates, Briar continues. Quentin, she says, buried Eliot back at the mosaic, packed up his things and moved in with Teddy for his last few years. Teddy had buried Quentin here, and put up a memorial for Eliot and Arielle as well. 

That’s what Eliot had really wanted to know. He’s reassured by the thought of Quentin surrounded by his family, not totally alone even if he’d been facing a terrible choice. Teddy was a good boy, he would have taken care of his father through the end.

The stone, with Quentin’s name carefully carved into it, seems so final. It makes Eliot shiver to think of Quentin under there. Eliot firmly reminds himself that Quentin is alive. Alive and well. Happy hopefully. Back on Earth and probably halfway to proposing to Alice, to starting a new family. 

It’s a struggle not to walk too fast for Briar on the way out of the shade. It takes a solid half hour in the sun before Eliot can shake the chill.

#

Eliot spends a week more at Teddy’s farm, but the novelty of having a time-travelling ancestor wears off, and it turns out to be a bit awkward to have a deposed King for a great-great-great grandfather. Particularly when he insists on looking so young and alive.

Eliot solves the problem for all of them by declaring himself interested in seeking out more branches of the family. Respectfully relieved, they send him on his way with a pack full of food and a map marked with all the relations they can collectively recall.

Eliot spends the next few weeks finding the people marked on the map and letting them add to it. He goes to other farms, to homes in small Fillorian towns, and to woodsy cabins. He makes it to the coastal village where Arielle had ended up when she left, finds her descendants living there, happy and unaware that one of the crumbling stones in the local graveyard belongs to their fore-mother.

His story spreads out ahead of Eliot, and few of his relatives are surprised to see him. They’re welcoming, and Eliot can count on a good meal, and smiles with something hauntingly familiar about them. But everywhere he goes there’s an awkwardness once the family stories have run out. Only the small children see nothing wrong with a many times grandfather being so young. Eliot supposes everyone seems old to them. And so Eliot keeps moving, always going to the next place on the map.

Eliot is considering wrapping up his trip and heading back to Margo when he stops by a small cottage surrounded by lush gardens. Unlike many of the places he’s gone so far, there’s no mob of children outside to welcome him, instead it’s just one sturdy woman. She’s been working in one of the vegetable patches, but she sees Eliot coming and stops, wiping the dirt from her hands with a rag.

Before Eliot can launch into his well-practiced greeting and explanation, she calls, loud enough to carry across the distance still between them, “Do you need me to use all the greats or is grandfather enough?”

Eliot likes her immediately. “You can dispense with the greats as long as you keep in mind that I _am_ great.”

She laughs.

“I’m guessing you know who I am,” Eliot says, coming close enough to speak in a regular tone.

The woman nods. “It’s been the talk of the family. I think I’m about the last one to get a visit.”

“I’m sorry-” Eliot starts to apologize, but she’s laughing at him again. She has a friendly laugh, but it’s her face that leaves Eliot staring. He’s seen little traces of Teddy, Arielle, and Quentin everywhere of course. But this woman… She doesn’t look much like Quentin in some ways, dark skinned like most of her branch of the family, broad in a way Quentin never was, her other features more delicate than his, but she has his eyes. Startlingly alike, right down to the lines formed by her laughter.

Those lines fade away as the silence grows and her smiles disappear as she starts, instead, to look concerned. She has the same worried furrow in her brow that Quentin gets.

Eliot forces himself to stop staring. “I’m sorry. You- You have your grandfather’s eyes.” 

Her eyebrows fly up. “Oh? You probably say that to all the grandchildren.” 

“No, not really. It’s remarkable,” Eliot says honestly.

There’s still a small furrow of concern in her brow, but she just nods, and then pushes the whole issue briskly aside, reaching out for a handshake. “I’m Adele.”

That surprises a laugh out of him. “A good family name. I’m Eliot, obviously.” He shakes her hand.

“Don’t say obviously. I could have thought you were some other mysteriously young grandfather returned from the dead.” 

“In Fillory, you have a point.”

# 

Eliot quickly finds that, despite the superficial resemblance, Adele doesn’t really remind him very much of Quentin. She gets right to the heart of everything, brisk and with a wicked, wry sense of humor. Within moments of Eliot’s arrival, she puts him to work in one of the vegetable gardens.

Eliot learns that Adele is a bit of a Fillorian botanist, growing unusual plants and flowers, both for sale and for her own idiosyncratic interests. Science hasn’t quite hit Fillory, but in her own way Adele is methodical, creating hybrids that sell well.

Eliot finds himself staying there longer than any of the other families he’s visited so far. He goes on short trips, visiting the remaining branches of the family in the area, but, instead of roaming freely, Eliot returns to Adele’s cottage. And when Eliot finally runs out of family to visit, he still stays. Adele doesn’t seem to mind. She introduces Eliot to her friends as ‘Gramps,’ and puts him to work, hauling dirt, hawking her goods in town, and weeding, always weeding.

Adele is not particularly interested in family history, or in Eliot’s royal background, instead she pumps Eliot for information on agriculture. For Adele, the most momentous thing Eliot has ever done (forget helping to defeat the Beast, bringing back magic, or averting the apocalypse) is introduce fertilizer to Fillory. 

The Eliot who first came to Fillory would have found this upsetting - the very parts of himself he was trying to erase the most memorable - but the current version of Eliot had to live a lifetime without grocery stores, and he can well understand the power of fresh vegetables. After the first year, Eliot had kept a small garden by the mosaic, not enough to live on, but something to supplement the grain they bought in town.

It had taken Eliot another three years to grow a satisfactory crop. Growing things in Fillory was different from on Earth, Eliot’s still unmet dream of Fillorian champagne was a testament to that. In Fillory, magic was in the very soil and crops had to be adjusted for it. Spells from Earth tended to go awry. Eliot and Quentin had suffered through some very unappealing vegetables in the three years it had taken Eliot to figure it out. 

So, Eliot doesn’t mind talking agriculture with Adele. Together over many meals they try to solve the champagne problem. But Adele lacks the magical training, and Eliot the botanical knowledge - neither of them reach any conclusions.

Eliot stays with Adele through the autumn harvest, until frost starts to bite at the air. One day she considers him over breakfast and asks, “Will you stay here through winter?”

There’s no judgement, if Eliot said yes, he thinks Adele would just shrug and go back to her porridge, but the question brings him up short. What does he plan on doing? “I don’t know.”

Adele simply nods, subject closed.

Eliot thinks about it over the next few days as they prepare for winter, drying seeds, preserving fruits and vegetables, both for sale and to feed Adele through the winter.

Finally, over dinner one night, Eliot says, “I think I might finish my degree. Do my thesis.”

Higher education isn’t really a thing in Fillory, but Eliot has joked more than once about making the champagne problem his thesis. Maybe it was never really a joke, because when Adele says, “Champagne?” it feels right.

“Yeah, Champagne.”

#

Eliot stays another week to help Adele finish readying for the coming winter. Adele probably doesn’t need the help, but it’s the least Eliot can do after she took him in for so long.

Adele sends Eliot off with the promise to write and Eliot makes his way back to the castle. He’s been in contact Margo regularly, making sure she doesn’t worry or send the army to find him, but now Eliot isn’t sure how to say he’s coming back. Instead, he just shows up at the castle a few days later, as the sun is starting to sink low in the sky.

Margo is just leaving the throne room, apparently wrapping up the day’s business. She’s deep in conversation with Tick, but, when she sees Eliot, she rushes to him, leaving Tick mid-sentence. Tick throws up his hands and stalks away muttering to himself.

“You’re back,” Margo says.

“Surprise.” Eliot makes an awkward ‘tah dah’ gesture.

Margo ignores this and pulls Eliot into a hug. Eliot is filled with a sudden rush of feeling - happiness to be here with Margo now and a strange, belated longing for her presence that stretches back, past Eliot’s summer on the road, to all the hours he spent hidden in his room ignoring Margo. Or maybe even further, to the endless time Eliot spent locked in the Monster. Or further still, maybe all the way back to the moment Eliot had to kill Mike and Margo wasn’t there and something had torn between them that they’ve never quite mended.

Eliot returns the hug, tight enough to lift Margo briefly from her feet, and long enough that all her various advisors have left by the time they’ve let go of each other.

Even after the hug ends, Margo stays close, studying Eliot. He takes the time to study her in return. She’s more regal than ever, hair up in a complicated arrangement that works with the crown, and in a dress with a simple silhouette, but richly embellished as befits a King. She looks good, maybe a little stressed, but when was the last time any of them weren’t?  

Eliot can’t help saying, “God, I’ve missed you.”

Margo smiles at Eliot, a little teary, before shoving him away with orders to wash the road dust off before dinner. 

Dinner is just them in Margo’s little sitting room. They can barely eat between stories, tripping over their words as if they have to make up right now for all the time they’ve missed. Margo tells Eliot all about the progress she’s made with Fillory, repeating, Eliot supposes, things she’s told him before, when nothing filtered through the dark haze that filled his mind. Eliot tells Margo stories from the road, about all his descendants, about his time with Adele, and his new determination to actually graduate. They laugh at each other’s jokes, newly thrilled with how funny the other is, how neatly their sense of humor aligns after too long with nothing to laugh about.

Eliot is amazed by how much Margo has accomplished - the local elections, the legal reforms, the treaties. She has so much more that she wants to do, so many plans and hopes. The people of Fillory should be fucking grateful that Margo had taken the time to speak with a talking bear about his interspecies romance.

It makes Eliot’s ambitions seem a little small. He’ll finish his degree and then? But when Eliot says as much, late into the night and deep into the wine, Margo gets sincere and intense. “No. Don’t even say that. You’ve come so far, El. This is a great next step. You’re great.”

Eliot is drunkenly touched, it’s almost too much. Maybe Margo can see that, because she distracts him by pointing at his hair. Eliot still hasn’t bothered to cut it, and it’s become so long that, between being always on the road and helping Adele in the gardens, he’s simply taken to pulling it back. Margo reaches over and clumsily pats at it, “But you could add a goal. Like, are you ever going to trim this?”

“What,” Eliot says, offended. “It’s practical.” 

Margo looks at Eliot, incredulous. It takes a moment for what he’s just said to sink past the booze, but when it does Eliot covers his mouth, filled with a dawning horror. _Practical_?

The Eliot he’d built after Logan never cared about practical. If anything, the less practical the more that Eliot liked it. Thank god he has Margo here to remind him of who he was.

Eliot pulls himself together. “You’re right. A haircut is _top_ priority.”

Margo tilts her glass toward him, “Good!”

They smile at each other, and, giddy with the wine and the hour, the smiles break into dizzy, drunken laughter. It’s motivated less by anything particularly humorous and more by the sheer joy of each other’s presence. It takes them a long time to stop.

#

The next morning- Well, the next afternoon, and _after_ the haircut, Eliot begins to work on the details of conducting a champagne thesis experiment. Margo lets him have free reign over a section of the royal garden filled with particularly ugly flowers and Eliot draws up rough sketches of how it might look. But Eliot can only get so far without actually talking to someone at Brakebills. Without both the Brakebills library and the Brakebills seal of approval, Eliot can grow all the grapes he wants, but they’re unlikely to make a good champagne and they certainly can’t end in a degree.

So Eliot plots out his argument for Henry, finds clothes that will pass muster on Earth, and packs a bag. Then one morning he braces himself and, following Margo’s careful instructions, makes his way back to Earth.  

After magic came back, after the rationing was lifted, a permanent portal bridging Earth and Fillory had been set up. For reasons Eliot isn’t one hundred percent clear on, it leads to a random town in Rhode Island. Eliot doesn’t linger there, instead he portals to Brakebills, and finds that Henry still considers Eliot enough of a student to allow him through the wards.

It all goes so smoothly that there’s hardly any time between Eliot psyching himself up to leave Fillory and sitting at Henry’s desk. Eliot finds himself wishing it _had_ taken a while, so he could have had a bit of time to adjust to being back here, to prepare for the possibility of running into people who haven’t seen him since he was the Monster.  

But Henry seems genuinely pleased to see Eliot. He pours them both a glass of whiskey, and they chat amiably for a bit. Henry updates Eliot on the comings and goings of the various professors and an exciting new explosion caused by the first years. When Eliot works up the courage to propose finishing his degree, Henry smiles. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Eliot.”

It turns out, magic being what it is, that Eliot is hardly the first student to come back to Brakebills after a long, strange time away. There’s a set process - some tests to prove that the student has mastered the curriculum and the thesis of course. Only Eliot’s proposed topic gives Henry pause. “It’s unusual to see a student attempt a thesis that’s so clearly outside the realm of their discipline.” But when Eliot seems determined, Henry only shrugs, and they move on to the logistics. 

They agree that Eliot will stay for a few days, during which he can pass the magical skills tests, consult with the professors who specialize in earth magic, and gather what he needs from the library.

After they’ve agreed on Eliot’s schedule, Henry swallows the last of his whiskey, and says,  “I know for a fact that there’s an empty room in the cottage if you’d like to claim it for the next few days.” 

Eliot hesitates for a moment, the idea of the cottage without Margo and _with_ most of the people he’s nervous about seeing is daunting.

He must pause for a moment too long, because Henry clears his throat and offers, “If it helps, Quentin isn’t here right now. You won’t run into him.”

Eliot looks at Henry, startled. Henry is avoiding his gaze, fiddling with his empty glass, uncharacteristically awkward.

Jesus Christ. Eliot can’t remember ever doing anything around Henry that would have given away the depth of his feelings for Quentin. “Am I just that obvious?”

Henry leans back in his chair, as if he can retreat from this conversation. “Ah. No, not as such. It’s just that this _is_ around the fortieth time we’ve known each other, Mr. Waugh.”

“So you just know me that well?” That’s a disquieting thought. 

“Ah,” Henry says again. “Not as such. I know, your- everyone’s _patterns_ you might say.”  

Eliot is puzzled. “I have a pattern?”

Henry only tilts his head as if to say, ‘Obviously.’

The implication settles on Eliot heavily. “How many times?” How many times has Eliot been obviously, pathetically gone on Quentin?

Henry shrugs, “I couldn’t say for certain, but to my knowledge? Every time you’ve known one another.”

Eliot’s breath catches. “Well. That is horrifically embarrassing.”

Henry nods and stands up, conversation ended. “I’m sure some would call it romantic. But. As I said, he’s not here. No need to worry about it today.”

Eliot stands too, but can’t leave it there. “It’s fine. I don’t need- There’s no reason that we need to be kept apart. He has his life, and I have mine.”

Henry opens the door. “Quite. I won’t bring it up again.”

Eliot would have been more pleased if Henry had never brought it up to start.

# 

In the end, Eliot doesn’t run into anyone of note. He sees Todd once, but Todd slips quickly away, ducking behind a woman Eliot doesn’t know. Eliot surmises that Todd is avoiding him. It probably has something to do with the ongoing issue of the stolen vest Todd had been wearing.

Eliot passes the tests that the professors set for him easily. It turns out that questing and fighting for your life is a learning incentive a cut above grades.

Eliot spends two days meeting with professors who can advise him on his thesis, professors that specialize in growing things, or that specialize in the sort of magical theory he’ll need to adapt spells for a whole new land. He spends another couple of days at the library, finding the books they suggest and making copies of the relevant sections.

Then, copies and notes in tow, Eliot heads back to Fillory, somehow avoiding anymore soul crushingly awkward conversations. 

#

In Fillory, Eliot spends the winter working out the theoretical portion of his thesis, hours in the library with stacks of notes, very unlike his former, carefully cultivated image. It’s not that Eliot wasn’t good at school, he had to be or he never would have made into Brakebills, but he’s never been much of a studier, never very interested in knowledge for knowledge’s sake. Instead, Eliot has projects. Whatever he needs to learn to pull off his latest project, whether that’s getting people to dance at his parties or perfecting cross dimensional agriculture, he learns.   

The champagne grapes turn out to be a more complicated agricultural spell, so Eliot plans a three stage process. First he’ll perfect a relatively simple spell, then a moderately complicated one, then finally he’ll grow the grapes he needs for his champagne.

Eliot doesn’t spend the whole winter locked away studying however. He and Margo make time between the ruling and the note-taking to work on rebuilding their relationship. They spend evenings together, close to the fire, avoiding the chill of the stone castle on a winter’s night. They talk, drink, and learn to fit their new broken pieces together again. It’s not quite the relationship they’d had before, but neither of them are the people they once were either.

When hints of spring start to show around Fillory, the heartiest spring plants breaking through the melting snows, Eliot takes the plans for his thesis and goes back to Brakebills for a final review by the committee. 

#

Elliot meets with the members of his thesis committee in a series of one-on-one meetings that go reasonably well. His appointment with Henry is mercifully free of any discussion of past time loops or feelings. Professor Woodmarch seems pleased, but sends Eliot to the library for a series of references that apparently will have no effect on the actual outcomes of the experiment, but are obligatory to acknowledge. It’s the kind of thing any Natural student would know about, but that’s what Eliot gets for doing a thesis outside his discipline.

The books are well-thumbed and easy enough to find at the library. Eliot’s copying spell has almost finished when he can feel, in that strange animal way, someone looking at him. When he turns around to see who, it’s Quentin. Quentin is here. Eliot suddenly finds himself having mixed feelings about his bland conversation with Henry. Maybe the warning would have been welcome after all. 

Quentin is so perfectly still. He has a small stack of books at his feet and his hand hovers in midair, reaching for another. He’s frozen there, his eyes wide. Overtaking Eliot’s own misgivings is a rush of worry. After what the Monster did to Brian, is it cruel of Eliot to let Quentin stumble on him, un-warned? Quentin might not consciously blame Eliot for the past, but instinct is another thing. Eliot stays still and nonthreatening, ignoring the memories that try sweep him under.

( _Pleasepleaseplease_ )

But all Eliot’s worries seem to be unfounded, because Quentin’s stillness is broken by a smile. “Eliot?”

Eliot feels a rush of relief. “Quentin.”

Quentin take a step toward Eliot, the little stack of books left behind. “I- Oh. Um. How are you?”

It’s classic Quentin and, even in the awkwardness of this moment, it makes Eliot smile. “Good, good. How are you?”

Quentin looks good. Although Quentin has always looked good to Eliot, even in baggy Fillorian fashion, even with wrinkles and white hair. Quentin does look tired though. He always lets sleep go first when something’s bothering him, and a twinge of worry tugs at Eliot even though it’s no longer his business.

But Quentin just says, “Oh, I’m good.” His eyes dart to the pile of books around Eliot. “What- Are you- Uh, you’re back.” 

“I’m trying to actually graduate from this place.”

Quentin’s face brightens, “So-” 

Eliot interrupts, before assumptions can be made, “But I’m just about finished here, and then I’ll be heading back to Fillory.”

The light dims. “Oh. Right.” Quentin seems to suddenly remember his own stack of books on the floor, looking over his shoulder. “I should leave you alone then.”

“Oh,” Eliot says, trying not to be disappointed. “I mean, if you’re busy.”

Quentin hovers, “I’m not. Are you?”

Eliot shakes his head, and waves grandly, offering the chair across from him.  

Quentin smiles awkwardly, and takes the seat.

Having got this far neither of them seem to know what to say next and a silence opens up.

Eliot finally tries a classic gambit, “So, what have you been up to?”

“Trying to finish my degree too. Julia thinks I should. They let her in. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t. Good for her.” 

“Yeah. So she’s on a school kick. I think she’s going to finish the whole program in like a year, which some of the professors are _not_ happy about, but, come on, she was a god.” Quentin looks exasperated.  

Eliot can’t argue with that. “True.” 

“So she’s on me to finish. And I think Fogg would like to see me go. He’s insisting my thesis be something like, ‘Killing gods: Don’t.”

Eliot laughs. “A warning to all those who would try to follow in the footsteps of Quentin Coldwater.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “I don’t think many people are interested in that.”

Eliot finds, that despite everything, Quentin still inspires an almost painful feeling of fondness in him. “I don’t know about that.” 

Quentin dismisses that with a twist of his mouth. “What about- How have things been for you?” 

Eliot has no interest in discussing his months in hiding or the delicate work of regrowing his life. “Well, like I said I’m working on my thesis. I- Oh.” He should have told Quentin right away. “I found your descendants.” 

“What?” Quentin’s face is blank with shock. “You mean… They exist?” 

“They do. A whole fleet of people with your eyebrows.”

“Oh my god. Julia and I tried to work out whether they’d exist or not. She said yes, but I- But you met them?” 

He’s looking at Eliot searchingly, a lifetime of shared memories hovering silently between them, and Eliot’s throat is tight as he says, “Yeah. I met them.”

Quentin nods, eyes bright, “I’m glad.”

Eliot smiles at him, almost drowning in the fondness.

Quentin clears his throat and says firmly, “Our.”

“What?” 

“You met _our_ descendants. Our’s and Arielle’s.”  

Eliot shrugs. “Ours,” he agrees. Then because it’s all too much, Eliot says, “I found our graves.”

“Wow. That’s…” 

“I know.”

Neither of them knows quite how to follow that up, and another silence grows. Eliot is opening his mouth to say something, anything, when Julia comes around the corner. She looks happier than Eliot thinks he’s ever seen her. Julia has a bag full of books, and a list of some sort that’s she’s consulting, but she looks up when she turns the corner and spots Quentin. “There you are. Did you find-”

Julia breaks off, noticing Eliot, “Oh. Hi.” She looks between the two of them, back and forth for a quick second. “I’ll just...” She points back over her shoulder, the way she came.

Eliot shakes his head. “No, no. Sounds like you guys were in the middle of something. I should be going anyway.”

Quentin startles, “No, we weren’t- I mean, don’t worry about it.”

Quentin turns to Julia and they have a short, silent exchange, and then Quentin points to the books he’s left on the floor. Julia shrugs, picks them up and says, “It was nice to see you, Eliot.”

Julia disappears back around the corner, Eliot calling after her, “It was nice to see you too?”

Quentin turns back to Eliot, “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. I really should be going.”

Quentin’s face falls, but he nods.

Eliot pulls the stack of copies he’s made closer, but, instead of sorting them out, he says, “It was really good to see you again.”

Quentin looks uncertain. “So it’s okay? I understand that before you-”

Eliot interrupts again, he doesn’t want to know what Quentin understands, “It’s difficult. But I have missed you, Q.” 

Quentin says softly, “I’ve missed you too.”

Eliot looks down at the papers. He wants to hear it and he doesn’t want to hear it.

“You know, Margo has written me a couple of times lately, asking me to come to Fillory.” 

“Really?” Eliot looks back up at Quentin, surprised.

Quentin looks guarded, “Yeah, something about wanting a Fillory nerd for a historical consultation.” 

Eliot is nearly positive that there isn’t much about Fillory that Margo doesn’t know at this point, certainly not that Quentin could tell her. Something in Quentin’s gaze makes Eliot suspect that he knows it too, but still Eliot says, “Well, if you want to, you should.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. We’d both be happy to see you. And you can hear all about Margo’s reforms. See them in action.”

Quentin stands. “Then I will.”

He won’t. Eliot feels sure of that. But... “Good. I- It was good to see you, Q.”

“It was good to see you too.”

There’s a moment where maybe they could have shook hands or hugged, but Eliot stays hidden behind his stack of books, the table safely between them. And then Quentin is gone, looking once more over his shoulder as he turns the corner of the stacks.

Eliot gathers up his books for re-shelving, and sorts through his copies in a daze. He’s seen Quentin. It went fine. No ( _Please_ ) problems or ( _please_ ) recriminations.    

On the way back, Eliot runs through the encounter in his mind once, twice, more. He’s lucky he makes it back to Fillory without somehow getting lost in a portal, distracted as he is. 

When Eliot steps back on Fillorian soil, he shakes himself out of it. Of course they were going to run into each other eventually. It went well. Now it’s over. It might be months before they see each other again. There’s no need to obsess.

#

As it turns out, it’s less than a week before Eliot sees Quentin again. On that day, Eliot has been out in the garden, preparing the land for his experiments. It’s heavy work - moving soil and digging out deeply rooted weeds. Or it would be if it wasn’t for telekinesis. Even with that advantage, Eliot has managed to work up a sweat and to get dirt on the rough practical clothes he’s wearing. Finished, Eliot heads to his room for a well needed wash and change of clothes.

Eliot is nearly there when Margo calls to him from down the hall. Eliot turns around and Quentin is standing there, an apologetic slope to his shoulders.

Eliot’s mind freezes for a moment.

( _PLEASE_ )

Eliot presses a fingernail into the pad of his thumb. There’s a small sting. He can move. Eliot is still in control. It’s still now. He’s still Eliot.   

Quentin waves awkwardly. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Eliot manages, the flash of fear being replaced by the overwhelming fondness Quentin always inspires. 

Margo sweeps up to Eliot’s side. Eliot had managed to forget about her for a moment, lost in the roller-coaster of seeing Quentin, and Margo makes a face at Eliot that says she knows it. She turns back to Quentin and says sweetly, “Q is generously responding to my pleas for help with sorting out the history records.” 

None of them believe the sweet tone for a second, but Eliot just says, “How kind.” 

Quentin still looks like he might fold into himself and apparently he has nothing to add, so Eliot goes on, “It will be good to have you here. We’ve missed you here in Fillory.”

Margo looks smug. “Yes. _We’ve_ missed you, Q.”

Eliot ignores her pointed emphasis. “Are you settled? You’ll be at dinner, right?”

Quentin has relaxed infinitesimally. “Yeah.”

“Excellent.” It’s cooler in the castle, Eliot’s shirt is start to cling in an unpleasant way. “I’ll change and I’ll meet you two there.”

Quentin’s gaze drops to Eliot’s clothes and then away. “Right. Uh, see you in a bit then.”

Margo smiles pointedly once more at Eliot before sweeping Quentin away. She must say something Margo-like to Quentin because he blushes and glares at her.

Eliot takes a deep breath and goes to change. He feels more tired from those two minutes than from a whole day in the garden. 

#

It only takes a few days to make it obvious that, despite coming to Fillory, Quentin is carefully giving Eliot his space. Eliot only wishes he didn’t appreciate it, but the Monster has twisted Eliot, broken him, until Eliot’s first reaction to Quentin isn’t warm affection or desire, or even the complicated frustration Quentin has inspired more than once over the years - it’s fear.

It’s not that being around Quentin had always made Eliot happy before, not with all the darkness in the world, not with the jealousy Eliot sometimes felt watching Quentin with Alice, but, at the heart of it, Eliot had always rather been around Quentin than not.

Now… Being around Quentin’s familiar face is enough to send Eliot spiraling. Everything slips and slides. Is it now? Is it then? Is he Eliot? Or is he... ( _Please_ )

Eliot does his best to smile at Quentin when they do meet, even as his heart hammers. Eliot makes what small talk he can, while trying to hide his restless fidgeting. (All of Eliot’s fingers move to his command. It’s now. He’s himself.)

It’s still Quentin after all. Quentin, with his awkward gestures. Quentin with his dry humor. A Quentin still filled with youth, but a Quentin who remembers growing old with Eliot. And, no matter what, part of Eliot always wants to be by Quentin’s side. 

But every time, eventually Quentin will move in some way that reminds Eliot of Brian and ( _PLEASE_ ) the part of Eliot that always wants to be near Quentin will be drowned out by the fear.

Even so, since Quentin came to Fillory, Eliot has never had to push Quentin away. Eliot has never had to repeat the rough dismissals he’d offered following his initial rescue. Because Quentin always makes an excuse. He always has somewhere to be before Eliot breaks. Quentin has known Eliot for a lifetime and he always knows this, and he _never_ makes Eliot say it.  

After Quentin leaves, Eliot’s heart will slow and his breath will even out, and always regret washes over him, replacing the relief. Regrets for not being the friend he’d once been to Quentin. Regrets that Quentin isn’t the thing that can make Eliot feel better. Most of all, regret at not being strong enough to fix it, or to even talk about it.

Eliot always vows to himself that next time he’ll ride it out, next time he’ll be himself again. And their conversations are lasting longer, sometimes there are light moments where Eliot almost forgets, but the panic always finds him eventually. ( _please..._ ) And then Quentin is gone. Off to the library to go through history books (Eliot should have known that Margo would never invent an implausible excuse), while Eliot retreats to the garden, new green leaves offering a quiet, earthy comfort.  

# 

Eliot’s nightmares react to Quentin’s presence as well, Eliot’s days and nights both haunted by the past. The nightmares had never quite left, but in the long winter - of planning, bonding with Margo, of looking to the future - they’d lessened.  But now, almost every night they appear - strangers, Margo, Fen, once Adele - all bloody and begging in Eliot’s mind. And, since his return, most of all Quentin.

The dreams are a sick slurry of memories, Quentin often replacing strangers. Their suffering is apparently insufficiently horrible for Eliot’s nightmares, their deaths selfishly overwritten. In actuality, Quentin- _Brian_ had gotten off fairly easily. The Monster had just been getting started, enjoying drawing out the game, and enjoying Eliot’s anguish, locked away in his own body, forced to watch.

The Monster, chillingly childlike, had been playing what amounted to a game of hide and seek that had left Brian more desperate every time he was found. First he was brave, then he wept and begged, then he’d looked numb with despair. The last time the Monster had offered Brian the chance to hide, Brian hadn’t. He’d given up on running, blank and exhausted. Luckily, Margo and her fairy eye had showed up not long after that and blasted Brian the fuck out of there. But now, in Eliot’s more horrifying dreams, Margo doesn’t show up, and the Monster keeps playing. It plays until Quentin tatters and falls apart, like all its toys eventually did.  

It’s this dream that leaves Eliot gasping in the midnight stillness of the castle tonight. His brain keeps playing an image of Quentin breaking under his hands. Eliot sits on the edge of his bed, teeth clenched against the memory, trying to reassure himself that it’s not real, that Quentin is alive and well, sleeping soundly just down the hall. But Eliot can still hear the cracking, still feel the damage under his hands, and still see the fixed blankness in Quentin’s eyes.

Eliot can’t sit still, the memories suffocating him. He finds himself on his feet, padding through the darkness of the castle corridors. It’s too dark to navigate, so he creates a little witch-light to keep himself from running into the walls. He keep this light dim, no need to wake anyone else.

Eliot finds his way to Quentin’s door and pauses, hovering there in the dark. He’s aware of just how ridiculous it would be to wake Quentin at this hour, only to make sure Quentin hadn’t died over a year ago when Eliot had just _seen_ him earlier that day. This awareness fights with Eliot’s desperate longing to see Quentin again. To see his bright eyes, his breathing chest, his vitality. Eliot stands there, wanting to knock and sure he can’t. One moment his muscles tense in preparation to knock, the next to leave. He can’t quite manage either. Instead, Eliot rests his forehead gently against the wood of the door, careful not to make a thud. He forces himself to breathe deeply, trying to create calm.

It doesn’t work. Still thrumming with tension, Eliot peels himself from the door. He suddenly can’t stand to be in the castle for another moment. It feels dark and smothering around him. There’s a balcony nearby. The closer Eliot gets to the fresh air the more desperately he needs it, and he walks faster and faster until he practically bursts out onto the terrace. The wide open sky calls to him, Eliot feels like he can breathe again. He goes straight for the wall, wanting to get as far from the confining closeness of the castle as he can. 

“Eliot!”

Eliot twists back around, startled. He’d expected to be the only one out here, but Quentin is there on the balcony too. A rush of relief fills Eliot at seeing Quentin there, so clearly alive. “Quentin!”  

Quentin had apparently been laying on one of the long wooden benches that line the walls of the castle, but now he’s scrambled up and looks like he’s about to lunge toward Eliot. He has one hand half up, as if he’d thought better of reaching out part way through the gesture. “Are you okay?”

Distracted by his relief at seeing Quentin, it takes Eliot a moment to understand the way Quentin’s eyes keep darting between Eliot and the the ledge. To realize that, in Quentin’s view, Eliot must have all but run to it. Oh.

Eliot takes a step toward Quentin, away from the edge, and raises his hands in a pacifying way. “I just came out for some fresh air.” 

Quentin nods, but doesn’t relax. Eliot moves closer closer to him, away from the drop. “Can I join you?”

Quentin nods again, and finally unwinds enough to lower himself back on the bench, sliding to one end so that Eliot can sit on the other. 

Eliot does and an awkward silence falls over them. It’s a silence with the depth that can only be achieved in the middle of the night, surrounded by other people who are sleeping peacefully.

Eliot darts a glance at Quentin and finds Quentin sneaking a look back. They both look away, but after another long, quiet moment passes, perhaps spurred on by the safe unreality of the deep night, and by leftover adrenaline, Eliot asks something he’s wondered for months. “Do you remember being Brian?”

Eliot sees out of the corner of his eye that Quentin turns sharply to look at him, but Eliot can’t bear to look back. He focuses instead on his own hands, thumb rubbing over his knuckles. Still Eliot.

Quentin is slow to respond, seemingly choosing his words carefully. “I remember Brian’s life - all his history, all the things that happened to him. But it’s like… it’s like a story I read once. Julia says it’s the same for her. I know the facts, but I don’t really feel them.” 

Now Eliot _has_ to look at Quentin. Eliot has to see if he’s lying, because it’s so _exactly_ what Eliot wants to hear. The moon is bright - the Fillorian moon gives off so much more light than the Earth moon - it’s enough light to see that Quentin looks sincere. He might be exaggerating, but Quentin has never been good at lying to Eliot. He holds Eliot’s eyes now, painfully earnest, and something Eliot has been carrying since he woke from the dream - since he ran into Quentin again at Brakebills, since he got free of the Monster - leaves him. Its absence is almost painful. Eliot has to look away from Quentin before Quentin sees Eliot’s features crumple.

Quentin doesn’t look away from Eliot though. Instead, he says, “But you remember.” 

Eliot’s glad he’s not facing Quentin. He turns farther, pretending to be looking out at the dark, undefined shapes of Fillory in the distance. 

Quentin’s words hover between a statement and a question, but Eliot makes himself answer as if it was a question. Fair is fair. “I remember parts. 

Quentin doesn’t push for more, careful as he has been since his arrival in Fillory. But god, Eliot misses him. And maybe this is the way back to him - confession, lancing the wound and all that - so Eliot goes on, “I remember a lot from the beginning. It was- I couldn’t control anything, no matter how I fought.” 

Eliot can’t help but turn to Quentin, needing him to know, “I did fight.” Quentin looks upset, and Eliot turns quickly away again, back out to the dark smudges of the landscape. “But it didn’t matter what I did. There was this little part of me that was still me. But the Monster was so much bigger and it was in charge. I could feel what it felt, all the joy and excitement. Boredom.”

Quentin makes a small noise, but Eliot doesn’t look. If he’s going to get this out he has to keep going. 

“After Margo took you away, it was upset. It- It got messy. After awhile I just started to... It was like, I was there, but I wasn’t. I don’t remember a lot of what happened after a certain point, because I just let myself go numb.”

Eliot has never been Catholic, but he supposes for a confession to be complete you have to get it all out. “When all of you showed up and cast that spell, I actually fought against it.” 

Eliot’s hands are shaking, there’s no end to the embarrassments possible in this world. “It hurt. I just wanted to go back to the numbness. I guess, in the end, I did for a long time.”

That’s it. That’s everything Eliot can manage to say. He makes himself look back at Quentin. 

Eliot is expecting disgust, but Quentin looks anguished. He seems to try to steady himself, before he says, “I _hate_ that you had to go through that. I can’t imagine.”  

Eliot shrugs. “It’s fine. It happened.”

Quentin’s expression darkens a shade, “It happened. And you’re strong, but it’s- you didn’t deserve that.”

Eliot’s throat feels tight. His hands are still shaking. He tries hiding it by clasping them together over one knee, casual, but, if anything, it draws Quentin’s attention.

Quentin reaches out, one of his strong hands coming slowly toward Eliot’s. Quentin moves slowly, Eliot could pull away, he could say no, but half of him longs for Quentin’s touch, the way the heat of him used to be enough to soothe Eliot on a bad day, and Eliot stays still. Quentin’s fingers just barely brush Eliot’s, their first contact since Eliot got out of the infirmary. 

Eliot startles away from Quentin, sharp and scared. Because there’s the other part of Eliot. The part that still feels the crunch of Quentin’s bones snapping in the dream. The part that remembers liking that feeling. 

Quentin pulls his hand back quickly, and holds both up in a clear hands off gesture. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- I know you don’t-” 

The spirit of confession must still be in the air because Eliot says in a rush, “It’s- Part of me feels like, if I touch you, if I get too close, the Monster will hurt you. I’ll hurt you. I’ll _want_ to hurt you.”

Quentin is quiet for a moment. “Do you want to hurt me now?”

“No! Of course not. But, god, Q. I’m out here because I dreamed of _killing_ you. I’m out here because I couldn't be sure it hadn’t happened.” Eliot finds himself studying his fingers again, unable to see the pity and fear that must surely be on Quentin’s face.

Quentin’s voice is steady though. “Did you dream that you killed me? Or that the Monster did?”

“The Monster, but-” 

“Yeah. Eliot, I’m not that worried about you deciding to live out your nightmares.”

Eliot turns back to Quentin, but can’t find anything to say that will make Quentin understand.

Quentin just holds his hand out again, a careful distance from Eliot this time. “Look, there’s only one way to know.”

Quentin waits patiently, hand steady, eyebrows raised in a challenge. Eliot takes a deep breath and slowly reaches out. Eliot just barely lets his fingers trail along Quentin’s. The slight contact is enough to make both of them shiver, but there’s no Monster, and no bloody plans bloom in Eliot’s mind.

Emboldened, Eliot reaches out until he can grasp Quentin’s hand carefully.

Quentin gently grips back, and then, with a small smile, shakes Eliot’s hand once. “Hey.”   

Eliot weakly laughs and they stay like that for a moment, just holding hands in the moonlight.

And it’s fine. It’s just Quentin’s hand, warm, sturdy and familiar. Eliot has missed Quentin so much, and now all the longing that had been buried under the fear seems to well up.

Eliot carefully swallows it, wrangles it into something manageable, something friend-like. “Can I…” he holds out his other arm, inviting a hug.

Something unhappy darts across Quentin’s face, but he says, “Of course” and moves a little closer, opening himself up. He doesn’t touch Eliot though, letting Eliot be the one to slide closer and reach out.

And then they’re hugging, and god. God it feels right. More tension leeches from Eliot, muscles relaxing that he hadn’t even known were tight. Quentin, taking that as a cue, moves forward, pressing his face into the crook of Eliot’s neck. Eliot turns his own face a bit, breathing in Quentin’s familiar scent, feeling the press of Quentin’s hair against his cheek and, for a moment, forgetting everything but this.

They stay like that for a long time.

When they finally do ease apart, they don’t go far, staying side by side, pressed into each other in the middle of the bench. 

“What are you even doing out here?” Eliot asks.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Eliot studies Quentin and sees the familiar circles under his eyes. Eliot clicks his tongue disapprovingly, and slides to the end of the bench, “Come here then.”

Quentin looks at him with disbelief. “Really?”

Eliot nods impatiently, gesturing at his lap.

The lines around Quentin’s eyes hint at a smile, as he swings his feet up on the bench and lays back down, head resting on Eliot’s leg.

Eliot runs his fingers through Quentin’s hair, a slow practiced gesture that he’s repeated hundred of times over the decades. Quentin has always struggled with sleep. In Fillory there wasn’t much in the way of pharmaceuticals and they’d had to come up with their own solutions. Like pills, sometimes these solutions worked well and sometimes they worked less. But most of the time, regardless of efficacy, Quentin had liked this.

Quentin’s eyes flutter shut, not asleep, but almost instantly more content.

“You’re growing it back out,” Eliot observes, idly.

“I don’t know what Brian was thinking.”

“Me either.”

Quentin just smiles, eyes still closed, well aware of how Eliot had always liked his hair.

That’s the end of their conversation. They stay like that, Eliot gently stroking Quentin’s hair, until Quentin falls asleep. Eliot drifts in and out himself, and finally, as the sun starts to come up, he gently wakes Quentin and points him, drowsy, in the direction of his room to continue sleeping. Then Eliot heads to his own room to do the same, nightmares at bay for the moment. 

#

That night, the conversation (confession), the hours of closeness - it helps. The nightmares still come, but it becomes a little easier for Eliot to remember what’s real. On the nights when they refuse to fade, Eliot goes to the terrace and sometimes Quentin is there. Even when he’s not, Eliot lets the soft breezes wash over him and remembers that Quentin is only asleep in the castle. That Quentin doesn’t feel Brian’s fear and despair. That Quentin trusts Eliot enough to let him close, to fall asleep on Eliot’s lap, with Eliot’s hands so near to his throat. Most nights that’s enough.

Even better, Eliot and Quentin start spending time together. They start having small, daily interactions that end less and less often with Eliot losing track of who and when they are. When Eliot does start to slip, and the panic starts to tighten his chest, most of the time Quentin can pull him back. Quentin does this just by holding out a hand, letting Eliot take it, trusting Eliot, easily and completely. 

As it becomes easier to be together, they start to spend more time with one another. Eliot visits Quentin at the library, where Quentin spends his days surrounded by stacks of paper of varying levels of decrepitude. Sometimes, Eliot will bring him lunch. They sit at the long wooden tables, space carefully cleared in the dusty stacks for the food and talk about nothing in particular.

Quentin, Eliot learns, finished his thesis just before coming to Fillory. He only shrugs when Eliot suggests a graduation celebration. “I’ll wait for yours, I’m sure Margo will throw you a party big enough for two.” 

Quentin asks about Eliot’s thesis and he listens patiently when Eliot starts to ramble. One day, Quentin visits Eliot in the garden, bringing a jug of cold water and two glasses. Quentin seems uncertain of his welcome, but Eliot is delighted to see him. They sit together in the sun, quietly observing the greenery. After that, when Quentin can’t sit inside among the dust and papers any longer, he comes to help Eliot with the garden.

In the long years they spend together in their other life, Eliot was always in charge of the small vegetable patch by the cottage. Arielle would watch and share the sage advice of a daughter of farmers. But Quentin, with his suburban childhood, had never had much to offer on this front. Indeed, Quentin seemed to have an instinct for what would be the exactly wrong choice in every circumstance and, left to his own devices, produced a trail of crumpling, dead plants in his wake. 

Despite this, in the long, slow days working on the mosaic, Quentin remained eager to help. Or perhaps more accurately, he had liked to watch Eliot working in the garden. Quentin would tease Eliot gently, calling him farmer boy, always with a fond smile. Quentin’s warm regard had soothed the part of Eliot that, years ago, had run so far from anything to do with farming. And while Quentin’s motivations were suspect, over the years he did learn enough to help in simple ways, mostly handing Eliot things or carrying away piles of weeds.

Later, Quentin’s help had been replaced by Teddy who had taken to the garden with a passion that seemed to come from none of his parents. Teddy’s curiosity and in-depth questions went past Eliot’s knowledge by the time Teddy was seven. When he was old enough, they had found him an apprenticeship. It had been the only right choice, even as it tore at their hearts to see their son leave.

But Teddy had been a good son. He had finished his apprenticeship and moved back to be near his parents, had founded the agricultural legacy that was still going strong today, built the house that was still filled with his family.

Later, when arthritis made Eliot’s fingers stiff and it became difficult to do the stooping necessary for the garden, Teddy had made sure that one of the grandchildren came to help every few days. They’d always arrived already carrying a basket of the best their farm had to offer. Teddy had taken care of his parents right up to the end. 

Eliot wonders now, if Quentin thinks of any of that as he helps Eliot in his research garden, so different from the necessary little patch they’d had at the cabin. Whether Quentin thinks about it or not, to Eliot’s surprise, Quentin still remembers the rhythms of working together. Eliot will turn to grab a trowel, not even thinking to ask, and there will be Quentin, already holding it out. 

The familiarity of these moments fill Eliot with a longing for something he can never have back, but the ache isn’t wholly pain, warm memories and simple security are mixed with the longing, and so, despite their pang, Eliot cherishes these small moments. Quentin, for his part, is quiet, the playful flirtation of the past gone, but even so, being here seems to bring him some sort of contentment as well. Quentin’s visits to the garden, and its rows of sturdy plants, become a regular occurrence. 

#

The visits are frequent enough that, one sunny afternoon, when Eliot is in the garden, focused on a row of successful plants that are part of the second wave of his project, and he hears footsteps behind him, Eliot assumes it’s Quentin, just as it has been for the last two days in a row. Eliot holds a hand out toward the steps without looking. “Hand me my notebook.”

There’s a pause, and then a voice that’s distinctly _not_ Quentin says, “I don’t remember you being this demanding.”

Startled, Eliot turns around so quickly he nearly topples over. It’s Adele. Eliot, confused but pleased, opens his arms for a hug. “Oh my god, how are you here?”

Adele explains that she’s come to see about doing business at the large market that, now Margo has stabilized the government, has been growing up again at the foot of the castle. Adele says since was in the neighborhood she thought she’d drop by and see, “Gramps.”

Eliot glares at her for that, but it’s a fond glare. He’s happy to see her, and conversation flows. Even though they’ve been writing to each other semi-regularly, there still seems to be so much to say. For the moment his thesis can wait.

It doesn’t occur to either of them to move, and so they’re still standing there, surrounded by the tall plants, happily catching up, when Quentin really does arrive.

Eliot and Adele are so involved in a story that Adele is telling about a new customer that Quentin has to pointedly clear his throat before they notice him. “Um, hi.” 

Eliot is startled again. “Quentin.” 

Adele’s eyes widen at that, and she turns to gape at Quentin. As Quentin registers her features, his eyes widen too and the resemblance is undeniable.

Eliot had, after the first initial shock of it, gradually stopped noticing how much Adele looked like Quentin. As Eliot spent more time with her, she began to look only of herself, but now, with the two of them face-to-face, Eliot sees anew the likeness. Together like this, Eliot can even see other little echos in her face that he’d never consciously noticed before - the eyes of course, but the bow of her upper lip, the tilt of her nose - all of it has somehow made it down the years and generations to her.

Adele recovers first, never one to be thrown for long. “I suppose I don’t need to ask who you are, but I’m Adele.” 

Quentin pulls himself together with a visible effort and then awkwardly holds out a hand to shake. “Uh, Quentin- Um. I mean, Eliot’s told me a lot about you.”

Adele politely does not comment on the unnecessary introduction, and instead says, “Aw, Gramps,” shooting a faux doting look at Eliot. “But you didn’t tell me Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather Quentin was in Fillory.” 

No, Eliot hadn’t. Even mentioning Quentin had seemed too difficult, too fraught with with the unexplained past. Now Eliot just says, “Surprise.”

Adele lets it drop more or less, turning back to Quentin, “Surprise to you too, I suppose?”

“Uh yes.” 

Okay, enough of that. Eliot waves them off to a nearby bench to bond, claiming a need to finish up with his experiment for the day. He listens with one ear as they stumble through a conversation. Quentin is obviously overwhelmed by meeting her, but doing his best. Adele seems her usual unflappable self.

Afterward, Eliot takes Adele to the castle to find her a room, despite her protests that she’s perfectly capable of finding a room at an inn (“But then _what_ is the point of having former royalty as relatives?”). Eliot invites her along to dinner with Margo, who spends the first minutes of the meal looking back and forth between Quentin (who looks increasingly uncomfortable and twitchy under the scrutiny) and Adele (who merely returns the look, unfazed). Finally Margo says, “Huh,” and turns to her food, royal proclamation apparently complete.  

After Adele has gone to bed for the night, Eliot heads to the terrace, where, as he suspected, he finds Quentin, eyebrows knitted in thought.

Eliot sits down next to him and waits for whatever is bothering Quentin to reveal itself. It doesn’t take very long. 

“You didn’t say that she looks…”

“Like you?”

“Yeah.”

Eliot shrugs. “She looks the most like you of all the people I met, but lots of them look a little like you, or like Arielle or Teddy.”

Quentin’s face creases slightly at Teddy’s name, pained, and Eliot reaches out to to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Eliot has found that knowing Teddy lived a good, long life, having years of memories of Teddy living that life, even seeing all of Teddy’s descendants still living today, none of that can reason with the part of Eliot that knows their son is dead, that they’ll never see him again. Eliot imagines Quentin feels much the same. 

Quentin reaches up and rests his hand over Eliot’s, returning the comfort. “I suppose it’s just more real to see her.”

Eliot remembers that feeling.

Quentin pats Eliot’s hand, an awkward signal that he’s sufficiently comforted and Eliot lets go, but they stay side-by-side staring at the stars, which are starting to be occluded by clouds rolling in. The air feels heavy with the promise of eventual rain. 

Finally, Eliot says, “Hey, at least you’ll always know that you left your mark on Fillory.”

“Oh, you mean aside from killing its god?”

Eliot laughs. “Yeah. Aside from that.”

# 

Adele spends two more days at the castle. She has business of course, but she spends her free time with Eliot and Quentin. Eliot is happy, as always, to spend time with Adele, and Quentin seems to have moved past his existential crisis and is now interested in learning everything about her.

Adele takes that in stride. She’s filled with sardonic observations of her family and of Fillory, and Quentin seems to find her charming, even when he himself features in her sharp commentary. 

The day after Adele leaves, Quentin brings Eliot a jug of cold water in the garden. The promised rain had come, dragging heat behind it, and the days are thick and oppressive. Eliot gratefully takes a break and the conversation turns to Adele.

“I think,” Quentin says, “she’s really more like you, if you look past the outside stuff.”

“Me?” Eliot says, taken aback. “I don’t want to quibble with that Ivy League education, but that’s not even possible.”

“Nurture.”

Eliot waves a hand. “Just because we talked plants…” 

“What? No. I mean… She’s smart-” 

“You’re smart Quentin. Don’t make me do a self-esteem intervention.” 

Quentin plows on. “No like, funny smart- Witty, that’s the word.”

“Funny-smart has a ring to it.”

“ _Witty_. She’s sure of who she is. She’s confident. You have to admit that’s more like you than me. _You_ left a mark here too.”

Eliot’s throat feels tight, but he just says lightly, “Aside from being such a bad king they had to invent democracy?”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “That’s not what happened.”  

Eliot smiles at him and doesn’t respond. Quentin matter-of-factly laying out those qualities as if it’s just obvious that Eliot is witty, sure of himself, and confident makes Eliot feel pleasantly warm inside, not just sweltering on the outside. He doesn’t want to disturb the moment.

Quentin observes Eliot, a stubborn set to his jaw, until he decides that Eliot isn’t going to argue.

For a moment they sit, just observing the tall plants baking in the sun, then Quentin bursts out, “God, wrap this up and come inside. Margo’s set cooling spells on some of the rooms.”

Eliot agrees that sounds amazing and they leave the heavy heat behind.

# 

The rest of the summer crawls on pleasantly enough, warm, but generally not suffocating. Eliot feels pleased to have a purpose, even if the idea of having a purpose involving farming still strikes him as strange. Quentin, likewise, seems to be enjoying his work with the archives. Nearly every night over dinner he reports some fascinating or hilarious only-in-Fillory discovery. Margo is working her way slowly, but steadily through her list of reforms, and Quentin is forever bringing her some piece of historical precedent to help pave the way.

These dinners regularly turn into a mini-council session of sorts, with Fen joining them more often than not. Margo, Fen, and Quentin debate Fillorian politics and policy with passion, and even Eliot has something to add occasionally. But, at least once a week, Margo will declare dinner to be a business-free zone. Instead, the four of them relearn how to be light with one another after all that has passed.

Quentin and Fen had never been close, but most of the time their mutual interest in Fillory bridges whatever gap might exist. Eliot and Fen have started growing the friendship that Fen had wanted. It’s complicated with all the hurts of the past mining even simple small talk, but, at the same time, getting to know Fen now, without the pressure of a marriage doomed to fail and a kingdom’s fate in the balance, is easy. Eliot likes her, as he had even in the midst of the worst of their marriage, and he’s pleased to see that Fen seems to like him as well. And if Fen can not only move beyond their past, but move beyond the deal Margo made with the fairies, Eliot has to believe nearly anything is possible. Which, given the hours Fen and Margo spend giggling together over inside jokes they don’t share with Quentin or Eliot, it must be.

To be fair, these jokes may have an element of light revenge. Eliot and Quentin have a lifetime of their own shared jokes, elliptical references, and memories that need only a word, a gesture, or a particular tilt of the eyebrow to invoke. Without intending to, as the days grow longer and then shorter again, Eliot and Quentin grow more comfortable with each other and begin to draw more and more on this mutual past. 

Near the end of summer, with the heat lingering during the days but the nights starting to grow cool, Eliot’s small vineyard finally starts producing grapes worthy of fermentation. Eliot spends a week magically bottling the different batches, slightly varying the spells, trying to find the one that matches the Fillorian conditions. At the end of the week, Eliot has a small collection of bottles, - different grapes, different spells - and all that’s left is deciding if he’s managed to make something enjoyable, or at least drinkable.

There’s only one way to find out, which is to actually drink the stuff. As far as Eliot is concerned that means a party, or at least a gathering. Sadly, in Fillory, only Quentin and Margo have an idea of what champagne should taste like. And, of those two, really only Margo is worth asking. As such, the gathering is just the four of them (despite Fen’s lack of knowledge about Earth beverages, it would be rude not to invite her, especially after she’d endured Eliot’s earliest attempts at bringing champagne to Fillory during the beginning of their marriage). The whole of the setting is just some snacks and a table full of bottles, nothing like Eliot’s glory days of party planning.

They start the tasting more or less carefully, Eliot’s thesis in mind. They take small sips and Eliot meticulously records the results. They rank the bottles roughly, then go back for a second round to settle points of debate on the details of the order. By the time they’ve settled on one final hierarchy - making faces between sips as they argue over which one should be considered the second worst bottle and which is merely third - the decorum has fallen away. Margo gives the winner the royal seal of approval by way of tipsy declaration, and the party portion of the night begins. 

In consultation with the newly written rankings, they graduate to full glasses, starting with the best bottle. Quentin, of all people, had turned out to have a mostly charged iPod, and Margo had produced a speaker. Eliot had done the difficult work of going through Quentin’s collection of mopey, indie music to produce a playlist of party-able songs, and now it plays in the background.

They snack on the trays of food that Eliot had ordered, talk, and work their way back down the list until they open a bottle so sour that it’s almost impossible to drink without a wince. Margo, brilliant as ever, solves the problem - inventing an almost mimosa on the spot, made with the juice of a Fillorian citrus that’s quite like an orange, except for being green.

Fen quickly catches on to the principle, and she and Margo have an argument about the juice to champagne ratio that falls into incoherent giggles. Eliot and Quentin stay firmly out of it. Quentin has become more and more relaxed as the night progresses, the perpetual tension he carries temporarily leaving his body, replaced by champagne bubbles. He’s starting to list onto Eliot, and Eliot, himself filled with a warm intoxication, responds by draping an arm around Quentin. 

It’s not much longer until Margo declares that it’s bedtime, and she and Fen depart after a round of drunken hugs, as if they are all parting for other continents instead of rooms in the same building. Eliot stays behind to gather his notes, and Quentin lingers too, slumped against the wall, watching Eliot work.

Notes secured, Eliot goes back to Quentin, starting to wonder if walking might be beyond Quentin’s current abilities, but Quentin surprises Eliot by straightening easily and saying, “It’s a nice night, let’s get some fresh air.”

Still filled with a warm, champagne peace, Eliot isn’t quite ready for the night to be over either, and so he agrees.   

Quentin leads the way to the terrace and the bench that Eliot has started to think of as theirs, settling against Eliot’s side again. Quentin has brought the last open bottle with him, and they take occasional swigs from it, grimacing at the uninspiring flavor.   

The minutes stretch on, peaceful and intimate, and Eliot lets himself imagine for a moment that the feeling is something deeper than the effects of alcohol. That Quentin, now that he has two world’s worth of people to pick from, would chose Eliot.

And, when Quentin leans up and kisses Eliot, it feels for a moment like Quentin _has_ chosen Eliot, like a natural progression of the soft moment they were sharing. Eliot kisses Quentin back, losing himself in it, and a bit in the past - all his memories of kissing Quentin over the years blend together for a moment, unmoored in the river of drink. Eliot reaches up, cupping Quentin’s jaw, young and firm in a way it hasn’t been for years, and falls back into the now. Eliot brushes a thumb up to Quentin’s temple, over the dark hair there, mind already racing ahead to the future - to the fantasy that Eliot could have this again, have this _here -_  in this version of reality.

Quentin makes a small noise and pushes closer, hands coming up to clutch at Eliot’s clothes. It feels so good to be here again, and it’s going to hurt so much to lose Quentin. To have Quentin leave for real, not because of some alternate, magical timeline, but because Quentin chooses a life without Eliot, because in _this_ world Quentin probably doesn’t even consider a life with Eliot a choice.

Abruptly, Eliot can’t do it. Better to keep the bittersweet memory of their life together. Better not to let himself get lost in the overwhelming swell of feelings that want to break through, that could drown him, leave him adrift when Quentin goes. Better to have Quentin’s friendship, a miracle in of itself after the things Eliot has done. Eliot leans back, breaking out of the kiss.

Quentin reacts quickly, letting go of Eliot’s shirt and startling back too. “I’m sorry. I should have-”

“It’s fine. We probably just had a little too much to drink is all.”

That’s a small hurt that has been stinging under all of it. This is, in a way, their third first. The third time that Quentin has needed alcohol to kiss Eliot. Eliot has already been to college, he doesn’t need to spend any more time being someone’s drunken exception. Especially not Quentin.

Quentin is too kind to let the implication stand, “No! I mean. That’s not why I-”

Eliot _has_ had too much to drink, and he can’t quite deal with Quentin’s sincere expression. Eliot cuts him off, “It’s fine.”  

Quentin looks worried. “What about another time? No champagne.” 

Eliot’s stomach twists, and he studies Quentin, trying to understand what’s being offered. “Like…?”

Quentin tilts his head, resembling a confused puppy. “We were good, weren’t we?”

Eliot’s throat is dry. “And that’s what you’d choose?”

Still confused, “What do you mean?” 

God, they shouldn’t be doing this under a haze of badly brewed booze. “I mean. We were good for being trapped in a pretty strange situation. I wasn’t exactly the last person on Earth, but I was the last person _from_ Earth.”

Quentin just shakes his head.

Eliot forces himself on, “So, wouldn’t you choose differently, now that you have a choice?”

“Oh.” Quentin bites his lower lip, squeezes his eyes shut. Just for a second, perhaps made slower by the alcohol. Then he opens his eyes and nods. 

Eliot’s heart sinks. He’d known, but he’d hoped…

Eliot nods back. “So there’s no need to reopen something that’s over.” 

Quentin’s gaze darts away and then back to Eliot. “Right.”

The peace has been broken and no amount of champagne could bring it back. They return to their rooms, offering each other polite, only slightly stilted, good nights. Eliot sleeps poorly, drifting in and out, overtaken repeatedly by the idea that he should have just gone with it, should have grabbed a little more time with Quentin while he could. Snatches of dreams where he does float by all night, each a little different. Some even happy.  

By the morning, Eliot has almost convinced himself that Quentin might have really stayed, that maybe Eliot has hurt Quentin by pushing him away. That, maybe, there was a chance for something good there. Eliot wonders if they should talk about it again, now that they’re sober.

He finds Quentin eating breakfast along with Fen and Margo. Quentin is a bit pale, but so are they, all clearly feeling the after effects of too much champagne.

Eliot watches Quentin closely, but Quentin treats Eliot just as he has every other day in recent memory.

The hope fades away. Eliot was right the first time. That’s that.

Eliot does his best to act as he normally would, but feels slow, slightly distant from the conversation. It must be the hangover. 

#

Eliot spends two more weeks writing up his results into something resembling a passable thesis and replicating his process, just to prove the results are consistent.

When it’s as good as it’s going to be, Eliot carefully packs everything up and heads back to Earth and then to Brakebills. The seasons are never quite in sync, and, while it’s late summer in Fillory, it’s the middle of the fall term at Brakebills, students and professors fretting over midterms. Brakebills is itself out of sync with the rest of New York which is experiencing a particularly muddy spring. Eliot is only lacking a trip to Brakebills South, and its endless winter, to cap off his seasonal tour.

Because Eliot has managed to land right in the middle of midterms, his committee, after much back and forth, schedules Eliot’s thesis defense for more than a week out. Eliot has dim hopes that any of them will actually read the whole thing in the rush, but, if they pass him, it doesn’t really matter.

Eliot finds himself at a loss for what to do with the time. He takes a few days in the city, does some shopping, eats Earth foods that no one has replicated in Fillory - tikka masala, pizza, orange oranges. He goes to a club with the goal of getting laid, but somehow can’t find anyone who meets his standards - they’re all too tall, or too peppy, or too young or too old. 

Eliot loves the loud, rude energy of the city after months in Fillory, but it feels somehow hollow despite the constant river of people filling it. He finds himself perpetually turning to talk to someone who isn’t there - Margo, Quentin, Adele or Fen - even Fray once or twice.

It gets to be too much, and Eliot leaves sooner than he planned. Instead, he finds out where Josh has moved and drops by. Josh is happy to see him - and excited to discuss magical agriculture and intoxicants, his specialty - but Eliot discovers that Josh and Poppy have fallen cloyingly in love. Eliot manages just over one day of that, before manufacturing a pressing reason he’s needed back at Brakebills. Eliot smooths over his abrupt exit with an early invitation to the graduation celebration Margo is planning and escapes with all due haste.

Lacking other ideas, Eliot really does go back to Brakebills, but, once there, he still has no more idea of what to do there than on the rest of Earth. The cottage is filled with people he doesn’t know. Even _Todd_ is gone.

The day before Eliot’s thesis defense, he finds himself in the library, after the last year it’s now, oddly, the part of Brakebills that Eliot finds most familiar. This familiarity is comforting in a way, sad in another, but Eliot has nothing in particular to find today. Eliot’s library time always been motivated by projects, and without one he’s not sure how to approach the stacks. He finds himself wandering aimlessly through the aisles, pulling books, flipping idly through without ever finding anything that catches his interest.

Eliot ducks around students, all seriously motivated, working on their midterms and, with each stack of notes he passes, Eliot feels more out of place. He’s about to leave, considering digging up a scarf and wandering the grounds, when he runs into, out of everyone, Alice.

When you get right down to it, Eliot and Alice have never been particularly friendly. There’s always been Quentin in between them, driving a series of disagreements disguised as differences in perspective or strategy. But here, in this moment, Alice is suddenly a familiar and welcome face.

Alice doesn’t immediately make an excuse to leave, and, given that Alice has never been particularly prone to polite fiction, and less so since her time as a Niffin, Eliot takes that as a good sign. Or at least not an explicitly negative one, and so he risks some small talk.   

Alice has apparently long graduated, but she tells Eliot all about her new project. It’s so far beyond Eliot that he can’t even think of what questions to ask her. Eliot suspects it’s beyond most of the professors as well, but Alice apparently thought the library might have some answers.   

Eventually, Alice seems to realize that Eliot is not understanding, and, with only a touch of disappointment, she turns the conversation to Eliot. 

Alice congratulates Eliot on his graduation without any hint of condescension, which somehow only makes it more obvious how far beneath her Eliot’s achievements are. Eliot smothers his resentment, and invites Alice to the graduation party, but unlike Josh and Poppy, she seems vastly uninterested. She tilts her head to one side in a gesture that makes her seem somehow remote from human concerns, and says, “No, I don’t think I’ll go back to Fillory.” 

Well, given all that’s happened, Eliot can understand that well enough, but for Quentin’s sake he makes one last push. “Quentin will be there. It’s his graduation party too.”

“Quentin?” It’s almost like Alice is hearing the name for the first time.

“Yes. Quentin. You two used to be in love.” Eliot shouldn’t have said that, digging up all the subtext they’ve worked to keep buried between them, but Eliot can’t help but imagine how hurt Quentin would be by Alice’s disinterest.

Alice’s gaze sharpens, and, between one second and the next, Alice transforms from distracted genius to the still brilliant, but wounded woman who has always been foremost in Quentin’s heart. The Alice who doesn’t like Eliot anymore than he likes her, both of them painfully aware of the struggle for Quentin’s time and his affection. “You’d know about that.”

Eliot doesn’t need to answer, they both know it’s true.

Alice’s face doesn’t soften, but the disinterest creeps back in as she pulls a book off the shelf, saying, almost absently, “There’s too much history there. That part of my life is over now.” 

“Does he know that?” Eliot can’t help asking. 

“Yes, he knows. He agreed.” Alice tears her gaze away from the book, looking mildly interested in Eliot again. “He said he loved _you_.”

Eliot’s heart stops for a beat. “Me.”

“You wouldn’t see him afterward.” Alice’s expression finally softens, becoming a little sad and far too knowing, reminding Eliot that he has more in common with her than either of them will ever acknowledge. “That I understood. I wasn’t going to be second best though.”

Eliot’s mouth is dry, but, “You could never be second best to Quentin.”

“Maybe. When he loved only me, it was too much. When he loved more than me, I didn’t like that either. Rather than hurt each other over and over, we agreed to end it.”

Eliot doesn’t know what to say, so he ventures, “I’m sorry.”

Alice ignores this, tilting her head again. “I don’t know why Quentin didn’t tell you any of this.”

_That_ Eliot has been wondering too.

When Alice sees that Eliot doesn’t have a response, she dismisses him. “I should be getting back to this. Congratulations on graduating. You can tell Quentin I said so too.” 

Alice doesn’t wait for a reply, turning immediately back to her book and seeming to forget Eliot instantly. 

Eliot leaves, giving up on any semblance of plans for the rest of the day. Instead, he retreats to his room, where he tries to make sense of the interaction. Quentin _had_ loved Eliot, but that doesn’t mean Quentin does now. It doesn’t mean Quentin would have chosen Eliot with Alice as an option, not really. Eliot goes over and over the moment after the kiss, wishing he’d been a bit more sober, wishing he could remember it more clearly.  

Eventually, Eliot has to put it from his mind. He needs to be ready for his thesis defense in the morning.

# 

The defense turns out to be, as Quentin had assured Eliot it would be, no big deal. The committee has a few questions about adjusting growing spells for Fillorian seasons, but nothing Eliot can’t answer. He serves them the champagne, and they seem pleased enough with the result - Henry joking that all students who want to pass should make their thesis alcohol based. 

Without much more discussion, they declare Eliot a graduate of Brakebills and toast to his success with another glass of champagne. Given that it’s the off season, there isn’t much more pomp to Eliot’s graduation than that. Henry gives Eliot a diploma, an alumni key, a firm handshake, and that’s it. 

Eliot sees no reason to linger on Earth any longer. He feels out of sync with a world without magic in the air. Eliot takes his key and his diploma and makes his way back to Fillory. 

What Alice said lingers in Eliot’s mind of course, but when Eliot returns, while Quentin is as happy to see Eliot as ever, he doesn’t seem to be overwhelmed with romantic longing. There’s no sign of pining, none of the desperation that Quentin was forever directing at Alice. Quentin has never been good at subtle, so Eliot has to assume that Alice was, for once in her life, mistaken. 

# 

With his degree earned, all Eliot needs to put the final touch on his Brakebills career is one last party. The energy and enthusiasm that Eliot and Margo bring to this opportunity leaves Fen and Quentin by turns confused and slightly frightened - at least, according to the looks of mild panic they exchange when Eliot and Margo are graciously pretending not to notice. The few gatherings Eliot and Margo have put together in Fillory have all been designed to stave off doom of some flavor or another. They haven’t had the chance to throw a real party for friends or for fun in a long time.

Margo does have a kingdom to rule, which might have distracted a lesser party planner, but she finds enough free moments to weigh in on whatever decisions Eliot has made. Her input alternates between gratifying delight and the pursed lips that presage a counter opinion that will, frustratingly, nearly always turn out to be the superior choice. Only occasionally is there protracted disagreement, but, with Fen and Quentin refusing to take sides, Eliot and Margo compromise like adults.

There are a lot of decisions to be made, but the most difficult part is coordinating the date. With a solid percentage of the guests on Earth, or, worse, wherever the Pennys find themselves, Eliot has to work with a ridiculous number of time zones and numerous calendars with days of variable lengths. Eventually, after Margo checks and rechecks the time calculations, a date is decided and invitations are sent.

The week before the party is a flurry of last minute decisions and the sheer work needed to get everything in place. It rains for three days of the week, causing a rush of cleaning in case they need to hold the whole thing in the castle, but the day of the party itself dawns sunny and warm, without being too hot. Eliot is slightly suspicious that Margo has been learning weather magic, but maybe it’s just good luck. 

The good weather means the party can take place in the planned location, nestled in the gardens near the castle. On one side, trees in full leaf shelter guests from too much sun, on the other, the long tables are set among the blooms of late summer. Under Eliot and Margo’s strict supervision, the staff have arranged everything just so, ready for the guests. 

Fillory doesn’t seem to have a concept of arriving fashionably late and the Fillorians show up first.  Adele is there, she’s brought a date, a lovely woman to whom Eliot gives a preliminary grandfatherly approval. A huge number of the extended family arrive together, apparently needing the safety of numbers to approach the castle. Eliot introduces a steady stream of them to Quentin, who does his best to make them all feel welcomed, although Eliot can tell he’s wearying of people exclaiming over his features. Eventually, as the extended family keeps rolling in, and children are suddenly everywhere underfoot, Eliot lets Quentin escape to a table of fellow historians, where he happily joins a discussion of The Great Rabbit War of the Last Age.  

Fray and Humbledrum show up as the flood of relatives has slowed to a trickle. Their appearance gives some of the guests pause, but the children are thrilled. The general flurry of children transforms into an almost orderly flock that follows the slow moving bear everywhere. Humbledrum’s conversation isn’t generally what you’d call family friendly, but Eliot and the parents decide to ignore this inconvenient fact in favor of peace.  

The Earth guests begin to arrive. Josh and Poppy come bearing bags full of chips and cheese puffs. “To give you a taste of home!” Josh explains. Margo forces a smile that looks sharp, but has someone find bowls to serve them in. The Fillorians are initially suspicions, but Humbledrum is thrilled, and soon - following his example - so are the children. 

Julia and Kady arrive together, each accompanied by their own Penny. Eliot is filled with invasive curiosity about that whole situation. He manages, just barely, to keep any probing questions to himself. Margo will probably find out anyway. Or, surely Quentin must know? Eliot can ask later. 

Alice wasn’t the only one to firmly turn down the invitation. Henry had declared his intention to never leave Earth again, and Todd had seemed suspicious that it might be some sort of murder plot. The important people are there though. 

The party is not like the parties that Eliot and Margo used to throw at the cottage. Of course, Eliot and Margo are not quite those people anymore. The crowd at this party is both older and younger. People sit at the long tables, which are quickly loaded down with freshly grilled foods. The drinks, by and large, have more juice than booze, children’s high pitched voices can be heard, mixing with the hundred conversations that fill the space.

Eliot works his way through the crowd, talking to everyone in turn, spending time with people he’s missed, and getting to know other people better. He gets to hear Fray’s hilarious stories about the animals that come into the tavern and the petty dramas that play out there. Eliot gets to learn how to tell which Penny is which, and to hear about the new worlds they’ve found together. Eliot gets to meet Julia’s eyes this time when she assesses him with that all seeing gaze. He gets to see Margo laughing with Fen and Josh, and, later to see her listening to his descendants worries about water rights - King even here. Eliot gets to see Quentin’s clear joy at spending time with Julia, and his animation when making an obscure point about Fillorian history. It’s not like the parties Eliot and Margo have thrown in the past, but in its own way it’s wonderful.   

Night starts to fall, the sky darkening slowly, the days still long with summer. Those with young children and some of the older guests start to drift off to the many palace bedrooms that Margo has opened up for guests. The mood of the party begins to shift with the crowd. The drinks become boozier, the laughter more unrestrained, and colored lights are lit around an area cleared for dancing. Margo has bespelled Earth dance music to play despite the lack of speakers and it thuds over the dance floor to the delight of many.

Eliot nurses one drink, not wanting to blur the edges of this night or this memory. He joins the crowd of brave people getting the dancing started - dancing in a loose circle with Adele, her date, and Fray. Eliot finds that Fray and Adele have struck up a quick friendship, no doubt inspired by their shared blunt worldview.

Eventually, the urge to dance finds the more timid party goers, or perhaps the alcohol has simply had a chance to do its job, but the dance area becomes crowded with people. Eliot dances with Margo, then with both Penny’s. Through the crowd, Eliot sees Quentin laughing his way through a ridiculous, but seemingly well practiced dance with Julia while Kady observes with obvious delight.

Eventually, Quentin is swept up by Margo, and Eliot finds himself dancing with Fen. It should be awkward, and maybe it is a little. The music has slowed and there are too many memories of their wedding underlying the moment, but mostly, to Eliot, it feels a bit like dancing with Margo. It feels like dancing with a friend.

Fen smiles at Eliot, a little sad at the edges and he moves closer to ask in an undertone, “Are you okay?”

Fen’s smiles grows, the wistful quality unchanged, but she says, seeming sincere, “I really think I am.”

Eliot smiles back, but the moment is shattered by Margo’s arrival, Quentin in tow. “I’m cutting in,” she says with a grin, holding out a hand.  

Eliot and Fen shrug at each other and part. Eliot reaches out to take Margo’s hand, wondering if she has some gossip to share, but she surprises him, sweeping Fen off and leaving a sheepish looking Quentin behind. 

Eliot blinks and, as smoothly as he can, shifts his hand toward Quentin. Quentin takes it with a tilt of his eyebrow designed to let Eliot know he saw the moment of awkwardness, and they arrange themselves. Eliot tries not to let himself tense up. It’s fine, Eliot can handle a slow dance with Quentin without being overcome with longing for what he can’t have again.

A few notes pass, and then Quentin moves a little closer to say, “The party seems to be a success.

Eliot smiles down at him. “I think so. I hope you’re liking it too?” 

“Yeah. It’s good to see Julia and everyone.” 

Eliot thinks about bringing up Alice’s absence, but doesn’t. “Yeah.”

They fade into a comfortable silence. Another song comes on, but neither of them move to separate. Instead, they relax into each other bit by bit, until Quentin’s head is resting against Eliot’s shoulder, the two of them just swaying together.

They never really danced much together, there wasn’t much call for it in their previous life. Even so, it feels natural and familiar now. And Eliot was wrong. He’s not fine. He’s overcome with a bittersweet longing. A longing for something he’s already had. It’s probably selfish to want it again. It’s no doubt selfish to be unsatisfied with being Quentin’s friend, with having small moments like this on top of that. But Eliot _is_ selfish. And Eliot does want everything he had again.

Eliot wishes the moment would stretch forever, but of course it can’t. The next song crashes over them, loud and fast. People who had been sitting out the slow songs start to pile on the dance floor and Eliot and Quentin startle apart. Before Eliot can say anything, Quentin is gesturing vaguely to something off the dance floor and disappearing into the crowd, leaving Eliot alone, buffeted by dancing, laughing people.

Eliot’s chest aches and suddenly another drink sounds like a great idea. He maneuvers through the dancers and finds his way to the drinks table, only to discover that there’s only beer left. He must have forgotten some instructions in all his party planning. The other people at the table seem perfectly pleased, but Eliot has no interest in settling for a beer, he wants something sweet or at least something strong.

Eliot slips away from the party, intent on discussing the issue with someone from the kitchen. Unfortunately, the kitchen is directly though the mass of people that make up the party. Not in the mood for conversation, Eliot ducks out, away from the party, walking around the edge through the trees. Halfway there, Eliot is distracted by a familiar voice, the speaker hidden by the trees ahead. It’s Quentin of course.

And it’s not that Eliot is a creep who wanders around listening to Quentin’s conversations, it’s just that Quentin sounds upset. Eliot has never be able to hear Quentin upset and not try to _do_ something. That inability is how Eliot found himself confessing his darkest secret to Quentin back when they barely knew one another.

Eliot moves a little closer, and realizes that there’s someone else there. Which makes sense, Quentin has been known to talk to himself, but generally in more of a mumble. The other voice says, “I think you’re wrong, but if that’s how it is, why stay here?” 

It’s Julia. And that should be enough. Quentin is with his oldest friend, she’ll make sure he’s fine. Eliot should move on, but he’s frozen at the idea of Quentin leaving. 

Julia doesn’t wait for Quentin to answer (or for eavesdroppers who got what they deserved to pull themselves together) before going on. “Look, Penny has found all sorts of new worlds and Kady and I have been talking. Why stay on Earth when we can see things that no other human has ever seen before? Not forever, but just- An adventure. Come with us.”

Quentin sounds tired. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just- I can’t.”

Eliot tries not to gasp with relief. Julia, on the other hand, doesn’t sound surprised, just resigned. “I know. But, if you change your mind, I think it would be good for you.” 

Quentin sighs, “When have I ever done what’s good for me?”

Julia laughs a little and then says something too soft for Eliot to hear. Quentin responds, also in a murmur. Then they’re headed back to the party and Eliot ducks hastily behind a tree, not wanting them to know that he was listening. 

Eliot succeeds in hiding until the footsteps recede and is trying to decide if he should still go get a drink, or find Margo and get her interpretation of what he’s just heard. Eliot emerges from behind his tree only to see Quentin who looks as surprised as Eliot feels. Apparently Quentin hadn’t gone back to the party with Julia after all, and now he’s starting at Eliot with an expression that slides from surprise to panic and then to anger.

“Were you listening?”

Eliot feels ashamed. “I’m sorry. I was just- I shouldn’t have-”

“No. You shouldn’t,” Quentin interrupts, sharply - nasty in the way that he can be when he’s upset.

“Quentin,” Eliot says, soothing and a touch chiding, tone finely tuned with a lifetime’s worth of fights and forgiveness.

Quentin draws a sharp breath, cutting off whatever he was going to say next, scowl relaxing into a milder unhappy twist to his mouth.

There’s a pause as each of them hesitate, the silence seeming to belong first to Quentin and then to Eliot and back again. 

Finally, Eliot ventures another apology, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened.” He can’t help but go on, “But if you- We love having you in Fillory. I love having you in Fillory.” A pained expression flits over Quentin’s face. “But if being here is making you unhappy, why not go with them?” It hurts to say, but Eliot makes himself finish. “See new worlds, Q. There’s nothing stopping you.”

The scowl is back, darker than before. “You don’t have to be cruel. I _know_.”

“Cruel?” Eliot is baffled, but still - _always_ \- driven to soothe Quentin’s hurts. Instinctively Eliot reaches toward Quentin, but Quentin flinches away from him. Eliot pulls his hand back quickly, angry with himself. Stupid.  

Quentin’s scowl crumples into something apologetic and sad. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t mean- You’re not cruel.” He’s wrapped his arms around himself, preferring to comfort himself rather than let Eliot touch him. “It’s not cruel to- to choose someone other than me. To choose a different life.” 

Eliot feels the ground lurch beneath him, like Fillory is a car coming to an unexpected stop. Fillory being Fillory, there’s a split second where Eliot thinks it literally has, but Quentin is continuing, voice shaking, but not startled, and Eliot realizes the only world shifting is his own. “I’ll go if that’s what you want, but I- It helps to be- We’re still friends. I-”

Quentin breaks off there, on a pleading tone, as if he needs Eliot to reassure him that they’re still friends. As if Eliot could ever be less.

But Eliot’s mind is stuck back in the moment where his world crashed to a halt, “You think I would choose someone else?”

Now Quentin looks as confused as Eliot feels. “Yes. Eliot. You spent a year refusing to even see me.”

Eliot’s chest is tight. “That wasn’t about _you_.”

Quentin’s fingers are pressed into his own arms. “I understand, but then things had changed. You said, a chance to do things differently. To choose differently.”

There’s something light building in Eliot’s chest. “I was talking about you.” 

“Me?”

Eliot barely wants to say her name, worried that just mentioning her could pop the hope he can feel building, but he forces himself. “I thought- Alice.”

Quentin looks surprised. “Alice? I’ll always love her of course, but that’s over.”

It’s so matter of fact, so unlike Eliot’s understanding of Quentin and Alice, that Eliot doesn’t know how to respond.

Quentin’s face is very carefully blank as he asks, “Does that mean- Do you- Could you choose me again?”    

The question is so brave and yet so preposterous that Eliot laughs. It’s a bad time to laugh, but it’s not a- a _cruel_ laugh. And Quentin knows Eliot well enough that hearing it causes his shoulders to relax slightly. Still, Quentin looks expectant, nervous, waiting for the answer to a question that never needed to be asked, and so Eliot says, “Do you know what Henry- what Dean Fogg told me?”

Quentin looks confused and more than a touch impatient, but says, “What?”

“It’s pretty embarrassing,” Eliot says cheerfully. “He told me that, as far as he knew, in every one of the forty time loops, if we met, I fell for you. Every time.”

“Eliot…” Quentin’s eyes are wide and more of the tension leaves him.

Eliot wants Quentin to be totally at ease, it’s heady to think that Eliot might have that power, and so he says, as directly as he can, “It seemed like everyone knew. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious. There’s no _choosing_ you, Q. You’re inevitable. I love you. I always will.”

The light on Quentin’s face is everything Eliot wants in this moment.

“Eliot, I love you too.” It’s not exactly a surprise that Quentin loves him, Quentin has always been generous with his affections, but it feels good to hear it. It feels even better when Quentin continues. “If I get to choose, I choose you. I spent a life with you and I want to spend another one.” Quentin holds out a hand to Eliot.  

The hope in Eliot’s chest has transformed to an almost painful warmth. His throat is tight with it, and he blinks back tears as he takes Quentin’s offered hand, solid and familiar. Eliot can’t look away from Quentin’s wide eyes, from the wonder, from the love he sees there. 

Eliot want to be closer, wants Quentin to feel his affection, wants to feel Quentin, but Eliot isn’t sure that the force of his need won’t rip the both of them apart. Even here the old memories haunt him. Eliot lifts Quentin’s hand and presses a soft kiss in the palm. It seems as much as Eliot can do in this moment. Maybe Quentin can see how overwhelmed Eliot is, because he takes a step closer, reaching up with his other hand to push Eliot’s curls back from his forehead, a soothing gesture, a trusting gesture. Then Quentin touches Eliot’s shoulder, steadying himself as he pushes up on his toes, leaning in for a kiss. Eliot bends, cautiously meeting Quentin halfway.

Quentin, either sensible of the nerves still running through Eliot or restrained on his own behalf, starts with just one easy kiss. A soft brush of lips that should mean practically nothing, and yet, to Eliot, it feels like coming home after being gone far too long. It feels familiar, it feels like relief and oh so welcome. Quentin makes a soft, pleased hum, and presses in for another, more lingering, kiss. 

Aside from that one drunken incident, full of misunderstanding, it’s been a long time since Eliot had the chance to kiss Quentin. How long is difficult to say, between the slightly different passage of time on Earth and Fillory and the confusion of their lives, but at least two years. In another sense, it’s been even longer. Longer since Eliot kissed this young Quentin, since they were young together. They take their time with the kiss now, getting to know this version of each other again.

In the distance, the sound of the party is muffled, music and laughter. Here, up close, there’s the soft sound of their breathing, of their lips. It’s intimate and careful. Eliot can feel the tension, the worry, draining out of him at the feeling of Quentin whole against him, at the way Quentin leans eagerly into any touch that Eliot offers, unafraid. Still, Eliot follows Quentin’s lead, keeping the kiss slow and gentle, until Quentin makes a low frustrated noise and Eliot finds himself being pressed into the tree behind them - Quentin using every inch of his height to deepen the kiss, fingers digging into Eliot’s shoulders.

Eliot is startled only for a second, before responding eagerly, stooping slightly to give Quentin better access, and bracing his hands on Quentin’s back to pull him closer. Quentin takes full advantage, and the kiss turns wet and dirty.   

Eliot wants to be even closer. Without thinking much about it, Eliot uses his hands on Quentin’s back to flip them, pressing Quentin into the tree. It’s a position they’ve been in hundred of times before, but now a flash of worry washes over Eliot at his impulsiveness, his impetuousness. Fear that his desire is too much, too rough, too- Quentin lets out a little satisfied huff of breath, and winds his arms around Eliot’s neck, pulling Eliot as near as they can get, trusting Eliot to take his weight. Eliot does, instinctively making sure Quentin is secure between Eliot and the tree. 

Quentin kisses Eliot again and Eliot responds, but something of Eliot’s fear must linger, because Quentin leans back, worry in his expression. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. And he is. Quentin trusts him, and Eliot trusts Quentin, even if Eliot still sometimes doesn’t trust himself.

Relying on that trust, Eliot lets himself kiss Quentin like he really wants to, taking control, one hand coming up to cup Quentin’s jaw. Quentin responds beautifully, melting against Eliot just as he’s always done, and the muffled sounds of the party start to be drowned out by the wet noises of their kisses, their combined breathing, and Eliot’s own heart pounding in his ears. 

They kiss like that until Eliot forgets everything but the feeling of Quentin and the small sounds he’s making. Until Quentin is restless against Eliot, his hands moving from Eliot’s hair, to the collar of his shirt, and then down to pull the shirt out of the waistband of Eliot’s pants, touching the bare skin of Eliot’s back. Quentin is hard against Eliot’s hip and he starts to rock against Eliot, fingers pressing into Eliot’s back. Eliot’s hips automatically push into the rhythm Quentin’s creating, and Quentin mumbles against his mouth, “Eliot…”   

The friction they’re building hovers between uncomfortable and sweet, but Eliot forces himself to remember that they are only feet away from a party with friends and family. Eliot pulls back and out of the kiss, not too far, just enough to be able to meet Quentin’s dazed gaze. That’s a mistake, because Quentin looks... Eliot can’t help bringing a thumb up to press into the reddened wetness of Quentin’s lower lip, Eliot’s determination fading to a vague, “The party...”

Quentin doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he holds Eliot’s gaze as he sucks Eliot’s thumb into his mouth, tongue curling softly around Eliot in a way he knows drives Eliot wild.  

Air seems to be in short supply, but Eliot manages to pull together enough breath to say, “My room?”

Quentin’s gaze sharpens. He pulls back slowly, teasingly, from Eliot’s hand and says, “Yes.”

“Right,” Eliot says, absently, sliding his now wet thumb along Quentin’s swollen bottom lip.

Quentin smiles and Eliot can feel it. Eliot explores further, pressing into the perfect corner of Quentin’s mouth, before the meaning finally registers with him. “Right,” Eliot says belatedly, more firmly this time, removing his hand. 

Quentin’s smile grows and Eliot gets distracted once again, this time by the lines around Quentin’s eyes. Eliot has always loved those lines. They’re not as deep as they will be someday, but still beautiful, and Eliot can’t help dropping a kiss there now.

Quentin laughs, only deepening the lines, but when Eliot leans down to place another kiss, Quentin says, “Focus,” and tugs on Eliot’s shirt, directing him toward the castle and the bedroom.

_That_ is a location to which Eliot is only too willing to be led. They walk past people on the way, but most seem absorbed in their own lives, party goers laughing with one another. They pass the drinks table, and Eliot notices, with absent satisfaction, staff restocking it.  

Inside, the castle is louder than it would normally be at this time of night, the sounds of children and exasperated parents drifting out from some rooms and snatches of muffled conversation from others. By some miracle, they don’t run into anyone in the halls, and then they’re in Eliot’s room, lit by a bright full moon and the traces of the distant, colored lights of the party.

The door safely closed behind them, Quentin doesn’t waste any time. He’s in front of Eliot, fingers on the buttons of his shirt. “You should take this off.”

Eliot smiles. “You first.”

Quentin just shrugs and pulls his shirt off in one nearly graceful motion, only getting slightly stuck on one sleeve. Eliot laughs, and tugs it the rest of the way off for him. 

Quentin seems unfazed. “Now you.”

Eliot does, unbuttoning and shedding his shirt with little fanfare. Quentin meanwhile, has pulled off his shoes and socks, and is slipping out of his pants and underwear.

Eliot gets distracted by the sight of Quentin’s body, so much younger than the last time Eliot had seen him naked, but Quentin doesn’t let that impede his plan, nudging Eliot back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and kneeling to take Eliot’s shoes and socks off for him.

Quentin’s not playing it up, it’s clearly just the next practical step to get where he wants to be, but it’s almost unbearably erotic to Eliot to have Quentin there kneeling between his feet. It’s been a long time since either one of them could casually kneel on a hard floor for something as fleeting as foreplay, but Quentin doesn’t even seem to register this casual display of vitality.  

When Quentin makes his way up to Eliot’s belt, it’s a relief to leave the pants behind, and Eliot can’t help making a small noise.

Quentin looks up at that, distracted finally from his quest to divest Eliot of all his clothes. Recognition of the effect he’s having on Eliot seems to dawn, and he gives Eliot a lopsided smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eliot breathes back.

Quentin looks a little smug at that, but as far as Eliot is concerned he’s earned the right. Then Quentin is easing Eliot’s underwear down, and, without any more warning, his mouth is on Eliot’s cock. And, oh god, Quentin hasn’t forgotten _anything_ about how Eliot likes this.

Eliot loses track of everything but Quentin’s mouth, the tremendous warmth, the perfect pressure. Eliot realizes his eyes have slipped shut, his head tilted back, but he wants to see. He pulls himself together enough to look down to where Quentin seems totally focused, his own eyes closed, hands and mouth working together in that exquisite rhythm. Eliot brings one shaky hand up to caress Quentin’s face, clumsily skidding over an ear before landing lightly in his dark hair, gentle as Eliot can manage.

Quentin opens his eyes and looks up at Eliot, still focused on bringing a lifetime’s worth of knowledge to bear on Eliot’s pleasure, and fuck, it feels so good. And Eliot loves to come in Quentin’s mouth, loves the way Quentin loves it, loves how, afterward, half the time Quentin is so desperate that the simplest touch leaves him coming apart against Eliot, but Eliot wants- he wants-

Eliot pushes carefully at Quentin’s shoulder. “Come up here.”

A flicker of worry crosses Quentin’s face, but he willingly clambers up. Together they finally make it all the way into the bed and Quentin hovers over Eliot, seeming unsure for the first time since their arrival in the bedroom. Eliot reaches up, smoothing a hand over Quentin’s chest, and asks, “Okay?”

“Yeah, you?”

Eliot runs the hand along his arm and then down Quentin’s side. “Better than okay.”

Quentin nods, and leans down for a kiss. And _this_ is what Eliot wanted. Eliot kisses back eagerly, hands finally on Quentin’s bare skin.

The last time Eliot remembers having sex with Quentin they had been old, of course. Old enough that the sex had been different. Accommodations had to be made for Eliot’s arthritis and Quentin’s back problems. It wasn’t that Eliot hadn’t loved sex with Quentin, because right up to the end it had been wonderful, but the range of possibilities had narrowed over the years. 

Perhaps now Eliot should want something athletic, something flexible, or fast and hard, but he’s had all that before. Tonight, after so long apart, all Eliot wants is to be as close to Quentin as possible. Luckily, Quentin doesn’t seem to have any objections to this plan, letting his full weight settle on Eliot and opening up to Eliot’s deep kisses. 

Time seems to drift away, the past, the future, and all that’s left is a series of nows. Now, Eliot has his hands in Quentin’s hair and Quentin’s mouth is open for him. Now, Quentin has slipped a hand in between them and is scratching through Eliot’s chest hair, just on the right side of rough as his knuckles run over Eliot’s nipple. Now, Quentin is hard against Eliot’s stomach and Eliot is encouraging Quentin to grind into him. 

Now, Eliot has found lube and has both their cocks in his hand, and Quentin is thrusting into Eliot’s rhythm. Quentin’s breath is ragged as he whispers Eliot’s name into the crook of his neck, Eliot murmuring encouraging nonsense back. Now, Quentin freezes, breath catching in his throat as he comes in stripes against Eliot’s stomach. Eliot slows his stroking only long enough to soothe Quentin through the aftershocks then moves back to himself.

Now, Eliot’s hand is moving faster, chasing a release that’s near, Quentin’s orgasm almost enough to set him off earlier. Just the sight of Quentin now, mussed and sated, is almost too much. Now, Eliot is teetering on the edge, rhythm of his strokes breaking. Now, Quentin is pressing a languid post-orgasm kiss behind Eliot’s ear, right where he knows Eliot is sensitive. Now- Oh god. Oh, now-

Eliot loses track of anything except the waves of pleasure running through him.

When things come back into focus, Quentin has found some fabric that Eliot suspects is his shirt and is lazily toweling them both off. When Quentin is satisfied, he throws the despoiled shirt out into the dark and nestles into Eliot’s side. He drops a kiss on Eliot’s shoulder and murmurs a good night, just like a thousand times before.  

After the long day of party preparations, the emotional confrontation, and the sex, Eliot has no objections, and soon they’re both asleep. 

#

Eliot wakes in the middle of the night, the shadows of a dream of the Monster clinging to him. For a moment, his heart pounding, Eliot is sure that he’s trapped again. But the weight against his chest is one of Quentin’s arms, hand curled loosely just over Eliot’s heart. Quentin is still pressed against Eliot’s side, a comforting heat despite drooling into Eliot’s shoulder in the way he always denies doing. Tonight that dampness is soothing, a sign of Quentin’s trust.

Eliot covers the hand on his chest with his own. Quentin doesn’t stir, another sign of his trust. 

Eliot holds Quentin’s hand and reminds himself that he’s here now with Quentin. Not there. Eliot focuses on Quentin’s steady, slow breathing and his heart gradually stops pounding. The dream fades, and Eliot falls back asleep.

In the morning, Eliot barely remembers it.

Instead, Eliot is faced with a Quentin who is glowing with morning light, his hair a delightful rumpled mess. Quentin is still entwined with Eliot, although this morning all traces of drool have been removed and he’s awake, propped up just enough to watch Eliot.

Eliot shifts to his side so he can see Quentin better in the soft, early light, but Quentin’s expression is neutral and unreadable, making Eliot nervous. “Hey,” Quentin says.  

And maybe that ‘hey’ was intended to be as neutral as his expression, but Eliot knows Quentin too well. Eliot can hear the tension in his voice. Some of Eliot’s own nerves slip away and, in their absence, Eliot can see that Quentin hasn’t quite managed to straighten the vulnerable cant of his brow or the tightness at the corner of his mouth. Quentin is worried. With a sudden rush of certainty, Eliot knows that Quentin is worried about Eliot changing his mind. Quentin, always looking for signs of rejection, thinks that Eliot will push him away again.  

Eliot wants to erase that doubt. He reaches out, pushing Quentin’s hair back, less smoothing and more just enjoying the feeling of its wildness. Eliot lets his affection show clearly on his face and replies, “Hey.”

Quentin’s wariness melts away. “Hi.” He smiles at Eliot who smiles helplessly back. In turn, Quentin’s smile grows bigger, until it’s large enough to be a little goofy. Quentin seems embarrassed by it and turns to hide his face in the pillow.

Eliot chuckles and slides a little bit closer, pulling Quentin to him and dropping a kiss in his dark hair as Quentin hides his face against Eliot’s chest instead.

When Quentin has managed to wrangle the smile into something smaller, he leans back to meet Eliot’s eyes. “So we’re still on the same page?”

Eliot looks at him solemnly, “Let’s grow old together. Again.”

Quentin’s smile begins to deepen once more, but then, just as quickly, dims. “Let’s do that. But, stipulating that we’ll both die of advanced old age-”

“Again.”

“Again,” Quentin agrees, undeterred from his point. “This time I get to go first.”

They’ve never really talked about Eliot’s death or Quentin’s life afterward. And Quentin is joking, but there’s a sadness in Quentin’s eyes that makes it clear that being left behind hadn’t been easy. Eliot is torn. Obviously nothing he says is binding, it’s hardly a choice Eliot gets to make. He’d like to soothe this old hurt for Quentin, agree even if it’s a meaningless commitment. He could promise to live to be exactly one day older than Quentin, no matter how hale Quentin turns out to be, but just the idea of being in a world without Quentin, even for a day, is enough to make Eliot shiver.

Eliot compromises, “Let’s just go together. Matching aneurysms in our sleep. It will be very romantic and people will probably think we were murdered.”

It’s as empty as the promise would have been, but it’s enough to make Quentin laugh, “Okay. Let’s do that.”

“Let’s,” Eliot repeats and leans in for a kiss, morning breath be damned. Quentin responds eagerly, and they get thoroughly distracted for a good while.

#

When they finally emerge from Eliot’s rooms, freshly clean and ravenous, they find that the post-party breakfast is still ongoing, although now drifting firmly into the brunch zone. 

Margo is presiding over a long table. The people at the table are divided between families convincing children to sit still long enough to eat, and people with a distinctly hungover look. There’s some overlap between these two groups, a number of parents wincing at high childish voices.

Eliot and Quentin gather large plates of the cold food along the sideboard and find seats near Margo.

She’s sitting with Fen, the two of them talking in low voices. Fen is leaning close, and, Eliot notes with some surprise, watching Margo with an admiring look. Her expression is familiar to Eliot from the early days of their marriage, when Fen had made the mistake of falling for him. Margo’s expression, fond and maybe a little hungry, leaves Eliot wondering if Fen will get to be the High King’s wife after all.

Eliot turns to his breakfast, keeping this observation to himself, a favor that Margo does not return, surveying them and saying, “Well, _finally_.”  

Fen takes them in with wide eyes and then with a growing smirk. 

Quentin has apparently become inured to Margo at some point, or maybe just feels confident for once, because he simply says, “Yep. Finally,” and digs into his plate of food.

Eliot can only shrug, sure his happiness is reflected on his face. 

#

After the guests have set off back to their homes, some by road, and some by portal. After Quentin and Julia have disappeared for a talk. After Julia had given Eliot a hug, and then whispered a shovel talk too terrifying to think about directly. After Margo had ensured that Eliot and Quentin plan on staying in Fillory, promising them official roles in her government if they wanted them.  

After all that, Eliot and Quentin find themselves back on their terrace, watching the sun set low and warm over a land full of the green and growth of the last days of summer. The gardens are full of ripe vegetables. And past the gardens there are the fruit trees, the autumn apples just starting to come into their own. Beyond the orchards, fields of grain ripple, ready to be harvested.

Eliot stands behind Quentin, arms wrapped around him, as they watch the colors of the sunset shift. 

Quentin lays his hand on Eliot’s arm and asks, “Ready to do this again?”

“Always,” says Eliot, meaning it entirely.


End file.
